


Where We're Meeting

by qalets (Qalets)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Always Johnlock if you squint, Chance Meetings, First Meetings, In Parts Dark, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, London, M/M, Pre Johnlock, Psychological, meetings, multiple AUs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:30:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 41,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qalets/pseuds/qalets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after John Watson is invalided back from Afghanistan he meets a stranger on a train; one that can read his military career in his face and leg and his brother’s drinking habits in his mobile phone.  Then, years earlier, he meets him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "John Watson: We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name."

They meet on a train.

It’s early in the morning. John finds himself adrift amid the tide of passengers pouring along the platform at Kings Cross. A cross-section of the London population: every shape and age and size, they insert themselves messily into the neat chair-sized spaces on the awaiting carriages.

Remarkably he finds a seat in a relatively quiet part of the train, by the window, pleased when the space beside him remains empty despite the hordes of travellers boarding. As they stutter out of the station he even prepares to spread out and take full advantage of his apparent good luck at traveling without a stranger pressed close against his side. However it is at this moment that a dark figure swoops in and takes the empty place.

“Cutting it a bit fine aren’t we?” John asks, attributing his own display of friendliness to his surprise on the sudden appearance of a stranger. Talking to a fellow traveller on a London train would usually be considered the height of social indiscretion; the stranger seems to know this and raises his eyebrows as he responds.

“Yes.” His voice is deep and somehow befitting of his features – pale and dark in equal measure. “An unfortunate consequence,”

“Of?” John finds himself asking, intrigued by the turn of phrase.

“Keeping a low profile.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t like to wait in busy stations,”

“Who does?” John asks somewhat rhetorically,

“Wouldn’t do to be recognised.” The stranger replies.

For a moment John is taken aback. He finds himself assessing the person in front of him. Whippet-thin and long limbed, clad in probably one of the more expensive suits John has had the opportunity to sit beside and swaddled in an equally expensive looking long coat and blue scarf. His hair is a mess of dark curls, framing a pale angular face.

“Should I recognise you?” John asks once his assessment of the stranger is complete. Model, he thinks idly. Possibly actor.

“Do you read the papers?”

“Not the tabloids,” John answers honestly, having reached his own conclusions about where this character would most likely have been catalogued.

“Of course,” His companion replies with the ghost of a smirk, John’s statement seems to have pleased him for some reason. “But you are mistaken; you’re unlikely to have heard my name in the gossip columns.”

“Oh, I’m sorry…” John starts, abashed.

“Don’t be. It was a perfectly viable deduction.”

“Deduction?” The word lights something buried deep at the back of John’s mind.

“You took in my appearance and the value of my clothing, as well as the fact that I am keen to remain unnoticed when travelling with strangers and deduced I held some kind of commercial fame. An actor perhaps?”

“Model,” John corrects.

“Perhaps I should be flattered?”

“I…” John starts but finds himself completely adrift with what he could possibly offer as a response.

“No matter.” The stranger saves John from his conversational floundering,

“So you’re not an actor?” John asks, probably a little bluntly,

“No,”

“Or a model?”

“No,”

“So you’re?”

“The only one in the world.”

John believes this stranger is now being deliberately obtuse.

“Which is?” John asks.

“You really have no idea?”

“None,” John responds immediately, beginning to grow tired with the whole exchange.

“And yet you’ve been back in the country for some time. Six months perhaps?”

“I..?” John is immediately interested again, but the stranger cuts him off.

“Tell me, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?” John asks once he’s found his voice.

It is at this point that the catering trolley pushes alongside them in the aisle. The stranger’s attention is immediately pulled away from John’s gaping incomprehension.

“Coffee.” The man says without polite preamble, aiming his words at the pretty female attendant poised above them wearing a pale but enthusiastic smile. “Black, two sugars,” A pause, “Please.”

John finds himself momentarily lost without the attention of this peculiar stranger and turns to watch the suburbs of London flash past the window, seeping into the ragged edges of the countryside.

“Can I borrow your phone?” The stranger asks suddenly, drawing John’s attention back from the rush of scenery. He turns to find both his new travel companion and the catering assistant staring at him.

“Anything from the trolley for you Sir?” She asks brightly above them and for a second John is unsure who to answer first.

“Er, no,” He aims at the uniformed woman in the aisle, automatically fishing in his pocket for his phone and thereby wordlessly answering his companion to the opposite effect, “Nothing for me thanks.” He continues to her, casually handing over one of the most expensive and personal items he owns to a man he hasn’t known for more than ten minutes.

The attendant smiles at him, a pleasant, pretty kind of smile that sits nicely with her delicate face and startlingly green eyes, before pushing her trolley away from them.

And John’s eyes fall to the mobile phone already set out beside a steaming coffee cup on the tray table in front of the stranger, even while he sits typing frantically on John’s own.

“There’s no signal on mine,” The stranger offers, without prompt or looking up.

“Oh”

 “Which is it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” The stranger doesn’t raise his eyes from the screen as he returns to the original topic.

“Afghanistan.” John responds automatically, “Sorry, how did you…?” He continues,

“A simple deduction.” The man states, finishing what he is typing and handing back John’s phone.

“A…?” John starts, bewildered.

“Much as you did earlier, though I doubt you realised you were doing it. You observed my apparent fame in my clothes and concern at being recognised, while I read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“What, my brother?” John is lost.

“Yes, although it’s not him you’re currently leaving London to visit.” The strangers continues, as if what he is saying is as easy as informing John of the quickest way to the nearest post office, “You wouldn’t go to him because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.”

John can only gape.

“How could you…?” He finally manages to stutter.

“It’s simple John,”

“It’s… wait a minute, you know my name?” John feels faintly as if he’s entered the twilight zone.

“I’m sorry, that was very rude of me. Can I call you John? Or would you prefer Mr Watson? You can’t still be using Captain?”

“It’s Doctor actually, but…” John is so lost in the conversation that it doesn’t seem fitting to begin to unravel it.

“There’s always something,” The stranger continues, thoughtfully, tipping his head gently to one side.

“Look, how could you know?” John starts,

“I didn’t know, I saw.” The stranger says, his stare level until he lets his eyes flick up momentarily to the luggage rack above their heads. John understands:

“You’ve seen my pack,”

“Correct,”

“How did you know it was mine?”

“Putting aside for a moment the likelihood that it _is_ yours, being that it sits directly above the seat you have chosen: your haircut, the way your hold yourself, even when seated, says military.”

“You knew about Afghanistan?”

“Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. The fading of the tan lines and the relative lack of upkeep on the haircut however say you’ve been out of the military some while, six months perhaps, definitely not yet a year. Wounded in action I’d wager from the cane you have hidden down the side of the seat and the fact that you’ve been making do on just a military pension since your return.”

“And how do you know that?” John is hovering on the edge of being insulted.

“The same way I know your name.”

“It’s written on my pack.”

“The fact that you are using your old army kit bag on a simple visit to your parents tells me you’ve not had the time, inclination or income to buy replacement luggage.”

“This is getting ridiculous, how can you know I’m going to visit my parents?”

“I didn’t, I suspected, you however just confirmed it. I did know about your brother.”

“Hmm?” John says in response, giving in to this bizarre turn of events now,

“Your phone,” The stranger nods in the direction of John’s jacket pocket where he had replaced it earlier, “It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you’re on an army pension – you wouldn’t waste money on that. It’s a gift then.

“The engraving,”

_Harry Watson, From Clara xxx_

“Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero subsisting purely on an army pension in London. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – the model’s only six month’s old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. But you’re not going to your brother for help: that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife: maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

“Another shot in the dark. Good one though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he does to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.”

Finished, the stranger reaches out to take a drink from the coffee on the table in front of him. John stares.

“That…” He finally stutters out “That… was amazing.”

“You think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary: it was quite extraordinary”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off’”

John can’t help but smile at this bizarre stranger and their bizarre conversation.

“You had time to see the engraving?” John asks, remembering those moments before as he handed over the phone.

“You were making eyes at the waitress.”

“I was being polite,”

“Whatever you say.”

There’s a pause.

“Well,” John starts eventually, “You seem to know,” He pauses, “Everything, about me. And I don’t know a thing about you.”

“You know I’m not an actor.” The stranger points out.

“I’m not sure that counts. What about your name?”

The stranger seems to waver, before deciding with a slight tip of his head: “Sherlock Holmes,” He offers,

John gapes. He has heard of him:

“The private detective.”

“Consulting detective.” Sherlock corrects, “The only one in the world.”

“I’ve seen you in the papers.”

“I thought you might.”

“Is that how you do it?” John asks,

“Do what?”

“Solve all those crimes.”

“If you are to believe the papers the police solve the crimes.”

“But you…” John searches for the word “…consult?”

“Yes.”

“By doing…” John gestures wildly, taking in the two of them, his bag, his cane, his phone. “By doing, all that?”

“Yes.”

“Well.” John’s not quite certain how to go on. “I didn’t recognise you without the hat.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes: “That damn hat.”

“Is there a story behind it?”

“None at all, it was just another attempt at reducing the likelihood of my getting recognised.”

“Didn’t exactly work?”

“It rather backfired.”

“So now you’re worried about being recognised at train stations?” John offers,

“And asked about why I’m not wearing my hat.”

“Sorry about that.”

“It was inevitable that it would be mentioned at some point.”

They pause.

“But that can’t be the only reason?” John continues,

“That I don’t wish to be noticed? No.”

“So…?” John presses,

“Let us just say it’s currently particularly important that I keep a low profile.”

“And that’s why you’re leaving London?”

“Yes, partly.”

“Only partly?”

“I hear Edinburgh is lovely this time of year.” Sherlock replies in a voice that belies emotion.

“So do I,” John says, meeting his eye, “Shame this isn’t the Edinburgh train.”

“It’s not?” Uncertainty flashes across Sherlock’s steel eyes.

“Leeds.” John can’t help but smile. “Did you not deduce that?”

“Well,” For the first time Sherlock seems a little ruffled around the edges.

He pauses.

“I suppose there’s no harm in taking a round-a-bout route.” Sherlock concludes.

A moment of silence.

Sherlock breaks it again: “So Leeds is your destination?”

It seems that after they have covered the larger topics they have now fallen back into small talk.

“Yes,” John nods “To see my parents.”

“But you aren’t from there.” Sherlock says, a statement not a question.

“You don’t need to be a detective to deduce that.”

“You don’t have an accent.”

“No, you’re right, I didn’t grow up there.”

“They moved,” Sherlock offers

“Retired,”

“And you haven’t seen them since you’ve been back in the country.” Sherlock’s apparent knowledge catches John by surprise again.

“You worked that out from the way I blow my nose?”

“You haven’t blown your nose.”

“No,” John pauses, “I, that was an attempt at a joke.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks in response. “I didn’t catch that,”

John can’t help but smile at this man who seems to know so much about people, without knowing anything at all. “So how did you know?”

“You seem,” Sherlock replies, pausing momentarily to search for the word: “Nervous.”

“And that couldn’t be because of a baffling conversation with a stranger?”

“You invaded Afghanistan; I doubt I could inspire any level of nervousness.”

“That wasn’t just me,” John interjects,

“Parents however, are another matter entirely.” Sherlock continues as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Aren’t they just?”

There’s a pause while they both contemplate the back of the chairs in front of them. John watches as Sherlock shifts himself slightly in his seat, his long limbs trapped in a space not designed for them.

“You aren’t traveling first class?” John asks.

“Neither are you.” Sherlock points out.

“You know why I’m not.”

“And you know why I’m not.” Sherlock counters, urging a response as if teaching a lesson.

“You’re keeping a low profile.” John answers.

“And you’re keeping an eye on your wallet.”

“And you don’t get on with your parents?” John attempts to apply this theory of deduction a little further.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your immediate assumption that my nervousness could only involve the people that raised me.”

“I suppose that isn’t the conclusion that everyone would draw.” Sherlock acquiesces.

“No.” John pauses, pondering the relative propriety of pressing the matter, then deciding to anyway:  “Was I right?”

“Partly.” Sherlock replies unhurriedly, “My mother and I have a… frosty relationship. My father died when I was small.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be, he and I had an even more difficult relationship than I currently share with my mother.”

“I’m sorry to hear that as well.”

Sherlock stares back at him for a moment.

“Is there a reason why you are visiting your parents?” Sherlock asks,

“You can’t deduce that?”

“It’s not an infallible science.”

“But it is a science?” John asks,

“The science of deduction, it’s something I’ve been attempting to catalogue.”

“Sounds like it would be an interesting read.” John responds genuinely.

“That’s what I tell people, though I fear I struggle in the art of actually producing prose that others both understand and enjoy.”

“Why is that?”

“People are idiots.” Sherlock answers succinctly.

“Well, if you go into writing it with that kind of attitude I’m not surprised they don’t enjoy it.”

“I’m not good at… sentiment.”

“By which you mean?”

“Emotions, feelings.”

“But those aren’t necessary in a book about science?”

“My thoughts exactly.” Sherlock pauses, “However people seem to demand a certain level of sensationalism…”

“Oh, you mean description, context…”

“Yes,”

“Without them you’ll struggle to keep a readership interested.”

“You seem to know something about this?” Sherlock asks,

“A little, I have a blog.”

“Many followers?”

“None.” John responds without emotion. “Nothing happens to me.”

A pause, punctuated with a crackling announcement for the next station. They have to wait until it’s finished to continue.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Sherlock says once the toneless female voice has finished warning passengers to mind the gap between the train and the platform.

“I’ve forgotten it.” John admits.

“The reason for your visit?”

“To my parents, yes, you couldn’t deduce it.”

“You’re still avoiding the question.”

“What do you deduce from that?” John asks,

“It tells me it’s something you don’t wish to talk about.”

“Well spotted.”

“Which tells me it’s either illness, scandal or money.” Sherlock continues, “Although that is conjecture at best.”

“Not good at getting a hint are you?”

“It depends on the context. Deduction is usually an exercise in ‘getting the hint’”

“Socially?”

“Then no, I have been most reliably and repeatedly informed that I am not.”

John turns to look out of the window again, they’ve pulled into a station and John can watch the faces on the platform on the other side of the glass as if watching a film playing for his own amusement: an old man and equally weathered looking golden retriever, a family: three boys under the age of ten and a harassed looking mother, a young woman with pink hair and a battered looking suitcase, a pretty brunette and her boyfriend, holding hands.

“My mother isn’t well.” John says finally, turning back.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sherlock immediately mimics the same sentiment that John had offered previously, as if parroting emotion he isn’t familiar with.

“But,” John sighs, “I guess it’s also about money; care isn’t cheap.”

“And are you? Going to… help?” Sherlock seems to be struggling,

“I’m not sure what it is I’m going up to do.” John says, turning to the window as the train begins to pull away and watching as the faces of those left behind blur into obscurity. “It’s not as if I’m in much of a position to help out, financially, as you took great pleasure in pointing out.”

“I didn’t mean to be, indelicate.” Sherlock says roughly,

“Hard to be reminded,” John looks back at him, offering a conciliatory smile “Maybe if I’d done better with myself over the last few months and been able to send something home she wouldn’t be… Well she wouldn’t be as sick as she is.”

“Then there would be no need for you to visit them.”

“You said it yourself, we’re not close.”

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

John can’t help but smile, perhaps this was this strange man’s way of attempting to spare John’s feelings by changing the subject – back to himself.

“Harry and me don’t get on.” Johns starts, “Never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker.”

Sherlock can’t help but look impressed at himself “Spot on then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

“And Harry’s short for Harriett.”

Sherlock goes very still: “Harry’s your sister.”

John can’t help but smirk.

“Doesn’t look like this particular incident is going to make it into that book of yours then?” He asks,

“Which book?”

“The Science of Deduction.”

“Oh, this isn’t the kind of thing that will be included.” Sherlock replies straightforwardly. “I’m sure I will have dismissed this soon as unimportant. Deleted it.”

“Oh,” John says, vaguely stunned “Well, thanks for that.”

“Meeting a stranger on a train is hardly the stuff that great mysteries are made of.”

“I’m sure you could sensationalise it a bit.”

“I’ve told you I don’t do that,”

“How do you know I’m not some kind of serial axe murder on the side?” John asks playfully.

“You are a wounded ex-army doctor on route to visit his sick mother; you do not fit the profile of a serial axe murderer.”

“Oh, I’m not sure, didn’t that guy from Psycho have a thing about his mother?”

“Psycho?”

“It’s,” John looks at him for a moment, before realising this man isn’t faking it, “It’s a film?”

“Oh,”

“Something you deleted?”

“Probably, if I was aware of it in the first place.”

“Not a fan of the cinema then?”

“Not generally.”

They’re interrupted again, this time by the ticket inspector; a bear of a man who seems to struggle to fit himself down the aisle of the train.

“You realise this isn’t the Edinburgh train?” He asks in faint Cockney accent as he scrutinises Sherlock’s ticket.

“Yes, I have been informed.” Sherlock replies.

“You’ll…?” The inspector starts to ask,

“Change trains at Leeds, yes,”

“Ok then.” He hands it back. “Say, you’re not…?”

“No.” Sherlock cuts in quickly. “I just look a little like him.”

“Oh,” The inspector looks a little put out, “Guess that makes sense. They say Sherlock Holmes is a genius, can’t see him getting on the wrong train,”

Sherlock glares at the man in response as he turns away to check the tickets of the passengers behind them. John can barely suppress his laughter:

“A genius?”

“So _they_ say.” Sherlock almost hums in response.

“Who can tell I have a sibling with a drinking problem from my mobile but knows nothing about Hitchcock or finding his way to Scotland?”

“Hitchcock?”

“He’s a director.”

“Oh, films again.”

“Yes.”

Another pause, they both watch as the ticket inspector lumbers up the carriage, punching tickets and chatting as he goes, until finally, he disappears out of sight.

“So you live in London?” John asks as he realises they’ve not spoken in some minutes, falling back to a default position of small talk.

“Yes.” Sherlock offers succinctly.

“So,” John pauses, waiting for further information. “Whereabouts?” He asks when nothing is forthcoming.

“Baker Street.”

“Very nice.” John nods, as if in agreement, “Prime spot, must be expensive.”

“The landlady, she’s giving me a special deal.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, owed me a favour.”

“Something to do with the detective thing?”

“You could say that.”

There’s another pause. Sherlock is fiddling with his phone, then his eyes slide to John.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sherlock begins rather sarcastically and John is sure he sees him roll his eyes fractionally, “Now I’m supposed to ask where you live?”

“That’s usually the way these things go.”

“How tedious,” Sherlock says, almost to himself.

“Hampstead.” John offers, realising the rest of the journey will be a boring one if he decides to take offense,

“Village, Heath, South or West?” Sherlock asks.

“West. The dodgy end.”

“You mean Kilburn.”

“Not that dodgy.”

“Do you like it?” Sherlock is obviously making an effort,

“It’s cheap, while I look for work.”

“The Royal Free?” Sherlock asks, referring to the hospital. For an instant John is faintly surprised that Sherlock has remembered this detail, provided as quickly as it was, before he remembers who he seems to be talking to.

“Difficult,”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise, his gaze shifting back to the handle of the cane just visible beside John’s leg. John nods minutely; glad he doesn’t have to say it out loud.

“Thought I’d try for some locum work,” John continues instead “Local GP surgery, but nothing yet.”

“And now you’re heading North.”

“Not for long.” John replies “What about you?”

“I’m not looking for locum work.”

John smiles, “No I mean are you going to be in the North for long?”

“As long as I need to be.”

“A case?”

“Post case. Lying low.”

“Sounds a bit like exile.”

“Feels a bit like exile.”

A pause.

“You’re not leaving anyone behind in London then?” John asks and then wonders where the question came from.

Sherlock is obviously as surprised by it as John is, he doesn’t respond.

“I mean, you’re on your own…” The conversation falling back to him, John finds himself floundering again. “I mean. You live alone?” John mangles a cover.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s no-nonsense answer doesn’t help matters,

“Good, I mean, I don’t mean...” John doesn’t quite know what he’s saying.

“Good?”

 “I don’t mean good, I mean, fine, it’s all fine”

“Fine.”

“You’re unattached, like me.”

There’s a silence then as Sherlock contemplates what John is saying.

“Oh,” Sherlock seems to realise something “John, um,” And starts to struggle conversationally as much as John had previously, “While I’m flattered…”

“No,” John cuts him off quickly, before realising the force of his word and clearing his throat gently, “I’m not asking, no.”

“Right.” Sherlock responds uncomfortably.

Another silence. John curses himself for ruining what was remarkably becoming an interesting conversation. He turns his attention away again to the view outside the window. Greyer now than it had been in London and stretched out thinly across miles of flat fields extending in every direction.

“Look, sorry,” John decides after a few moments, turning back with a tight smile, “Let’s just ignore that whole bit shall we?”

Sherlock nods once.

“Perhaps we could start again?” John asks. Sherlock looks dubious, so John holds out his hand: “Hi, I’m John.”

“I don’t remember you saying that the first time,” There’s a smile haunting at the edges of Sherlock’s mouth.

“No, but it’s complicated to go through all the deductions again. This way is simpler.”

“I suppose it is.” Sherlock tentatively takes the offered hand, “Sherlock.” He says resolutely. John can’t help noticing how cool those long fingers feel wrapped around his.

“Pleased to meet you,” John says,

“And I you,” Sherlock seems to be playing at cordiality.

“Although you already know everything there is to know about me.” John counters,

“I thought we weren’t going through the deductions again?”

“Let’s not, no.”

“Though if this were the beginning you wouldn’t know I already knew those things about you.”

“You have a point.” John says, “Perhaps I recognised you from the paper.”

“You hadn’t, you thought I was a model.” Sherlock is definitely repressing a smirk.

“I do remember, it wasn’t very long ago.”

“Two hours.”

John is a caught short.

“What?” He asks,

“It was two hours ago.” Sherlock repeats.

John looks down at his watch, confirms that it has indeed been two hours.

“I hadn’t realised.”

“I think the old adage is: Time flies…”

“When you’re talking to a bizarre genius?” John finishes.

“I feel I should take offense at the word ‘bizarre’”

“It was meant politely.”

“I’m sure it was. As far as these things can be meant politely.”

John smiles.

“So two hours means…” And even as John starts the sentence he is interrupted by the same toneless female voice over the train loudspeaker, announcing their imminent arrival at Leeds.

They watch each other as she speaks.

“It means you have reached your destination.” Sherlock says as the last words of the announcement die away.

“And you’ve barely managed half way.” John replies.

“Well I doubt the next leg of the journey will be quite so stimulating.”

“Stimulating?” John asks.

“Yes,”

“Not the word I’d use.”

“Really? What word would you use?”

“‘Confusing’ perhaps?” John offers “‘Complicated’?, ‘Vaguely awkward’?”

“That’s four words.”

“I am a man of words.”

“You are a blogger.” Sherlock remembers,

“If a man blogs and there is no one around to read, is he really a blogger?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches with the makings of a smile: “One of the great unsolved mysteries.”

The other passengers around them are standing now, retrieving bags and coats, fussing with children and belongings. John can feel the motion of the train slow, watching out the window as the platform reaches up in welcome along it’s side.

As it rolls to a halt around them they stand at last. John realises as he follows Sherlock from the carriage that this is the first time he has seen the other man on his feet; somehow his height doesn’t surprise him.

“Well,” Sherlock says moments later as they stand awkwardly facing each other on the platform.

“Well,” John repeats.

“It’s been very, pleasant, speaking with you.” Sherlock continues, haltingly.

“And it’s been very confusing, complicated and vaguely awkward speaking with you,” John repeats with a smile. Sherlock matches it slowly.

John shoulders his bag. “Good luck with the rest of your journey.” He continues,

“And you,” Sherlock replies.

“And good luck with the consulting detective thing.”

“Thank you.”

“If you ever need a blogger…” John starts playfully,

“I’ll consider it.” Sherlock responds a little too seriously.

“No, I mean, I wasn’t, fishing or anything…”

“Of course not.”

“Ok.”

“Yes.”

“You have a website?” Johns asks, feeling faintly ridiculous.

“Yes.” Sherlock replies. “The Science of Deduction,”

“Yes,” John agrees, thinking back, wondering when it was he had assumed it was a book. “Well, I might have to look it up sometime.”

“And I can find you online?” Sherlock asks, “If I find myself in need of a blogger?”

“Yes,”

There’s another awkward moment.

“Well,” John puts out a hand “It’s been good to know you Mr Holmes,”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock corrects, taking it, “Good to meet you too, John,” But suddenly his smile fades, his cool fingers around John’s tightening as he steps forward to drop his face close to John’s ear. “John,” He says again, this time in a voice that is more intimate than a stranger’s should be, “Can you hear me?”

“I’m sorry?” John asks, breaking their contact abruptly and stepping back.

“I said it’s been good to meet you.” Sherlock replies levelly.

“You did. But then…?”

“But then what?” The confusion on Sherlock’s face is evident.

“You…” John starts, stops.

“Are you ok?”

“I’m, yes, I didn’t…” John feels dazed all of a sudden. “I thought I heard…”

“You must have misheard me, the noise…”

And as Sherlock mentions it John notices: the chatter and the shouts and the rumbling of trains all around them.

“Yes.” John agrees finally.

“I should get my train.” Sherlock looks uncomfortable,

“Yes,”

“Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”

“Perhaps we will.” John says.

They contemplate each other again.

“Goodbye, John” Sherlock says heavily.

And turns to walk away.

John watches him go for a long time, a tall figure in a long coat cutting a dramatic swathe through the throngs in the station. It’s not until that figure disappears from view that he realises he’s standing alone on a train platform, a heavy pack on his back and a far-away look on his face, watching a man he’d only just met on a train. And that his cane is still tucked ashamedly beside the seat he’d met him in. 


	2. Chapter 2

They meet in a café.

It’s late in the day. John sits at a table alone, steaming cup of coffee set out before him while the muted sunshine of a London sunset falls through the blinds at the window at his side.

“May I?” It’s a deep voice that pulls John from his thoughts. He looks up from his coffee cup uninterested, surveying a tall figure looming above him.

John doesn’t respond, just nods his assent and goes back to his contemplation of the striped patterns the sunlight has cast on the tabletop. The stranger seats himself in accordance to polite convention: dragging out the chair diagonally opposite and perching there.

They sit in silence, two figures neither alone nor together, as far apart as is possible while still seated at the same surface.

“What can I get you sir?” It is the waitress that breaks the quiet. Addressing the stranger opposite John. She has pink hair.

“Coffee. Black, two sugars please.” The man’s voice is deep and sonorous, strangely at odds with his skinny frame and pale skin. John studies him out the corner of his vision, wondering idly how strong the wind would have to be to knock this slip of a creature from his chair. A light breeze, he concludes, watching the stranger contemplate the view outside the window. Perhaps when he’s blown away that strong voice will be the only thing left.

The coffee is brought and placed amid the stripes: a large mug and a jug of milk. The stranger seems to tut a little at this, pushing the milk away as if offended before casting around for the sugar.

John pushes it toward him without thought, realising as he does so that he’s somewhat shown his hand; now the stranger cannot fail to realise that he is watching.

“Thank you,” Says that strong voice again.

Silence again. John has consciously stopped looking at him but it still aware of the movement of those hands before them, fingers selecting a squashed pink packet from the bowl and shaking it idly before tearing it open.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

This time when the stranger speaks John is surprised enough to look up at him.

“Sorry?” John’s voice hasn’t been used in some time and he’s aware the word comes out rougher than he’d expected.

“Which is it – Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The stranger looks at him frankly; John can’t help but be surprised at the colour of his eyes.

“Afghanistan,” John confirms. Looking away again, this time toward the window and the evening sunlight.

At odds with the stillness within the café the road outside is a busy one, full of the bustle of the evening as people pass by:  home from work, out to the theatre, returning from the shops laden with bags, the odd jogger. He watches as a young couple stroll past laughing outside; a pretty brunette and her boyfriend, holding hands.

“Sorry,” John says, cursing his innate Britishness that he feels he must start a sentence with an apology. As much as he is trying not to care about the question however, he has to admit that the stranger has intrigued him, “How did you know…?”

“You’re in uniform,” The man says coolly,

“Yes,”

“Sitting alone outside a train station,”

“Yes,” John agrees again,

“Looking like a great weight is on your shoulders,”

“I guess it wasn’t much of a leap,” John feels a smile tug at the edges of his mouth; even as he drops his head to sigh back into this coffee cup.

“Your uniform says Captain, but the rank is a new one.”

“You can tell that huh?”

“It is something of a skill of mine,”

“First time I’ve worn it,”

“And you’re ‘shipping out’?” The stranger says the words as if quoting them,

“Tomorrow.”

“You’re catching a train to the base tonight,”

“An hour.”

“You’re here alone?” The stranger asks,

“Yes,”

“You’re not close to your family.” This time it’s not a question,

“No.”

John’s hands have curled into fists on the table before him. He has to prise them open slowly.

“Are you catching a train?” John asks to change the subject, accepting of the fact he seems to now have been drawn into a conversation.

“No,” The stranger replies curtly,

“Here for the coffee?”

As if remembering the beverage in front of him the stranger takes a drink. John flicks his eyes back up to his face just in time to watch him grimace theatrically.

“No,” The man responds firmly,

John can’t help but huff out a quiet laugh,

“Meeting someone,” The man continues in response. “I hope.”

“You hope?”

“It’s not definite.”

“You’re meeting them here?” John motions with his eyes at the cafe.

“No, but I should be able to see them from here.”

“They know you’re here?”

“No.”

“They know you’re meeting them?”

“No.”

“Do they even know you?”

“Not exactly.”

“You’re stalking them?”

“Observing.”

A pause, an uncomfortable one. John begins to question the wisdom of striking up conversations with strangers in coffee shops.

“Tell me you’re with the police or something,” John says hopefully, looking up and finding the stranger’s gaze fixed firmly on the world outside the window.

“Detective.” The stranger confirms with a brisk nod, “Consulting.” He adds.

“Never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t, I’m the only one in the world.”

John stops talking.

“Your first tour?” The stranger asks after a long pause.

“Yes.”

“Are you…?” The man starts but John cuts him off.

“Look, no offense, but I’d rather not…”

“Okay.”

John goes back to staring down the abysmal coffee in front of him. The stranger’s attention on the street outside.

Raised voices across the room. John lifts his head to study the table beside them: a harassed looking mother with her three young sons, none of whom seem to want to sit calmly at a table and drink milkshakes when it is more entertaining to playfight with their brothers. The woman sees him looking and flashes him a tired smile.

John’s phone begins to ring in his pocket.

Pulling it out he contemplates it for a few rings. _HARRY_. John flicks his eyes back to the stranger, confirming his attention is still elsewhere, before answering.

“Harry,” John’s greeting is resolute.

“John?” His sister’s voice however is less sure,

“What do you want Harry?” They aren’t exactly speaking at the moment; John can’t help it if his tone is short.

“John?” Her voice again, sounding lost. He’d been expecting a curt response, an insult, a shout. Anything but this broken emotion.

“What’s up now?” He asks,

She doesn’t respond, but he can hear her breathing. Hard and heavy.

“Look,” John starts, but comes up short, “God, are you crying?” He asks instead, brotherly concern beginning to trump sibling rivalry.

“John, I…” She’s definitely crying.

“Why are you calling? Why now?”

“John.” She says again. “Can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you Harry, what the hell is going on?”

This time she starts to sob. The sound makes something in his chest wrench.

The line goes dead.

Pulling the phone from his ear John looks at it for a long time.

“Family problems?” A deep voice asks. John looks over at him.

“Lucky guess.” John’s not feeling very polite any more, still shaken from the call.

“I never guess,”

“So what is it exactly that you do?” John asks, almost accusatory, turning his full attention back to the man and discarding his phone on the table. “Other than stalk people from coffee shops?”

“I consult.”

“With the police?”

“Yes, on occasion”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

“The police don’t consult with amateurs,”

“No,”

“So they ask you to sit in cafes?”

“If the occasion necessitates.”

“The occasion being?”

“Crimes, the more interesting ones.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“A suspect yes.” The man confirms,

“So why talk to me?”

The stranger seems to be caught short. They stare at each other.

“You passed me the sugar.” The man says after a pause.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who makes casual conversation over sugar.”

“You seemed interesting.”

“Hardly,” John huffs “You had me worked out within minutes of sitting down,”

“Not everything.” The man concedes, “Not straight away.”

“But you have it worked out now?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t possibly know everything.”

There’s a long silence as the man contemplates him, he seems to have interpreted it as a challenge.

“Your rank is new.” The man begins, eyes flashing up to John’s face “You’re nervous. You have a medical band packed into the outside pocket of your bag, but you aren’t wearing it. Something you should to be proud of. But you aren’t. That tells me that at this point in your life it is the soldiering that comes first, not the medicine.”

He pauses, John lifts his eyebrows to indicate that he should continue.

“You don’t get along with your family,” The stranger obeys, “Despite all the obvious achievements you’ve made in your life. A few possible reasons for that, the most likely of which, seen as they’re not here to wave you off into the sunset, is that they don’t approve.  Judging by that phone call you’ve argued. And now you’re sitting here beating yourself up about that…”

Something shifts in the stranger’s face and he sits forward a little, continuing.

“I said you’re nervous. At first I thought it was the tour, but that’s not it. It’s your family. The people in your life. You don’t have many, but those you do, you value. They make you worry. You beat yourself up in coffee shops over arguments you may or may not have had, but you can’t change the past. The harm you have done to others or that I have done to you. You can’t fix it.” The longer the stranger talks the further away his words seem to be becoming. “And you shouldn’t try. You don’t want to. But I value you. More than you realise. I don’t mean to do you harm. I don’t want you to fix this, fix me. I just want you to come back.”

At some point while the stranger has been casting a spell of words across the table he has leaned closer to John, covering the back of his hand with his own amid the stripes on the formica. His cool touch sears into John’s skin.

“John,” The man says, as if from a distance.

John snatches his hand away suddenly.

Unruffled the stranger sits back. Looking back toward the street out the window.

“There you go, you see – you were right.” He says,

“I was right?” There is an edge of panic in his voice as John speaks, his hand burning as if branded. “Right about what?”

“The police don’t consult with amateurs.”

All of a sudden the stranger’s gaze seems to get caught on something he sees outside the window beside them. John doesn’t have chance to respond before the stranger has leapt to his feet.

“Good luck with the tour,” He says with gravitas, eyes catching John’s momentarily.

Then he sweeps from the room.


	3. Chapter 3

They meet at a crime scene.

“Look, this is ridiculous.” John cries in exasperation “Is there really any need to do this again?”

The female uniformed police officer with the delicate face and green eyes has the decency to look affronted.

“I realise you may have been over this before Sir,” She placates, her tone calm “It’s important we have all the details.”

“But, “John splutters “This must be the fifth time I’ve said all this.”

“So then this will be easy?” The officer surmises with practised efficiency.

“But,” John repeats, “I told the guy over there all this a minute ago, can’t you just ask him?” He asks, waving off into a hallway he can barely recognise as his own.

His house has become a police headquarters. Overrun with strangers.

“Who Sir?” She asks.

“I don’t know, tanned bloke, no uniform. Grey hair.”

“Lestrade?”

“Could have been his name.”

“He was the one that asked me to go over this with you Sir.”

“Oh,” John’s resolve fades,

“Perhaps this would be easier if you sat down?” She asks pleasantly, with a pale smile.

John does as he’s told. Allowing himself to be offered a seat in his own living room.

“So when was the last time you saw your wife Sir?” She asks, sitting beside him, her voice full of professional concern.

“Mary,” John corrects, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands. “Her name is Mary.”

“Yes, Sir”

“And stop calling me Sir, it’s John.”

“Yes, S…” She starts and stops herself, “John.”

“It was this morning.” John answers her question, “We had breakfast, as usual, said goodbye, as usual. She went off to her job, I went off to mine.”

“And you’re a doctor?”

“Yes, GP, the Chadwell clinic, round the corner.”

“So she took the car?”

“No, she doesn’t drive. I walked, she took the tube.”

“What would be?”

“Jubilee line, I guess. As far as Baker Street. Then the Bakerloo.”

“She works…?”

“In publishing. Fleet Street. Look I’m sure I’ve told you this…” He’s getting agitated again, tired of playing the game.

“Ok Sir,” She says calmingly, forgetting his earlier instruction “But, you see,” She pauses, “Where I’m confused is that Fleet Street isn’t on the Bakerloo line?”

“She usually walks from Charing Cross – there’s a coffee shop she likes…” John offers, before remembering himself, “Look, I really don’t see how any of this is relevant…” His voice is rising again.

Then suddenly he stops. Staring at her. Blinking in surprise.

“I’m a suspect aren’t I?” He asks, “This is why you’re asking me these questions, asking me them again and again? You’re trying to catch me out, you think I had something to do with this…” He’s got to his feet now, anger rising; panic and worry and desperation.

The police officer on the sofa can only stare up at him, lost in her own air of calm.

“You’re not a suspect.” A deep voice offers behind him.

John whirls, finding himself staring up at the pale face of a tall man in civilian clothing: a well-tailored suit and flowing dark coat.

“What?” John asks, unable to form any other kind of question.

“I said: you’re not a suspect.” The man continues,

“And who the hell are you to tell me that?”

“I should have thought you’d be glad to hear it.”

“Sherlock…” There’s a voice over the man’s shoulder and a figure comes in to view: Lestrade, the officer from earlier. “I won’t have you badgering the witnesses.”

“I’m not badgering,” The man he called Sherlock tells him calmly.

John thinks both of them may be supressing the urge to roll their eyes.

“Look,” John jumps in toward Lestrade, aware now that this is the man in charge and clearly the one he should be speaking to, “This is ridiculous,” John repeats, “Surely there are other things I can be doing than being questioned about my wife’s tube habits?”

“At the moment Sir the best thing for you to do is allow us to gather as much information as possible.” Lestrade placates, in much a similar tone as the uniformed officer had used before him. He offers her a nod as he speaks, dismissing her from the sofa and back to the blank press of uniforms currently stationed in John’s hallway.

“Have you spoken to the brother?” Sherlock asks unexpectedly as she leaves.

“The brother?” Lestrade asks him, at much the same moment as John asks:

“Who’s brother?”

“I need to know if he has a green ladder,” Sherlock offers cryptically, striding away.

John and Lestrade stare after him.

“Who the hell is he?” John asks, still watching.

“An unfortunate necessity,” Lestrade sighs, tone downtrodden for a moment, before they both turn back to face each other.

“My wife is missing,” John feels the need to summarise,

“Yes,”

“Shouldn’t you be out looking for her? Instead of asking me silly questions?”

“At this point in the investigation Sir there really are no silly questions. Any information might be key to the case.”

“Like green ladders?”

“Apparently,” Lestrade offers automatically,

“So what is it you aren’t telling me?” John asks instead,

“What do you mean?” Lestrade asks,

“I mean, my wife has been missing for less than twelve hours.”

“Yes,”

“And not that I don’t appreciate the man power you’ve assigned to this, I do” John says, looking around at the truly staggering amount of people currently stomping around in his living room, “But,” He looks back to Lestrade: “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Lestrade sighs heavily. Studying John’s face as if weighing up a difficult decision.

“You’re right.”

“I am?” John can’t help but be surprised.

“Yes,”

“Then what is it?”

“Sherlock has reason to believe…” Lestrade starts, but John cuts him off,

“Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“You mean the guy with the coat and the…” John casts around, “Cheekbones?”

“Yes, him.”

“And he is?”

“Working with us?” Lestrade frames it as a question,

“He’s with the police?”

“Not exactly.” Lestrade clarifies calmly “He consults,”

“He’s a consulting policeman?”

“Consulting detective.” It is Sherlock’s voice that corrects him. John whirls around in time to see him walk back in through John’s front door as if he were the one who owned it.

“Never heard of it.” John addresses Sherlock.

“You wouldn’t, I’m the only one in the world.” Sherlock says,

John can only look at him, before turning back to Lestrade: “Going back to the point for a moment, what does he believe?”

“I believe that your wife may be part of a pattern.” Sherlock replies, somehow picking up on a conversation he wasn’t present for the beginning of.

“A pattern?” John asks.

“Yes, she may be one of many.”

“But,” John splutters “She isn’t one of many, she’s my wife!”

“Yes,” Lestrade interjects, glaring at Sherlock, “I’m sorry, we realise that. Sherlock thinks that her disappearance may be one in a line of similar events.”

“Really?” John asks Lestrade,

“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice again from somewhere at the back of the room, he seems to be making a habit of answering questions not directed at him “Six since June 13th. All female, middle class, aged between mid-thirties and early fifties,”

“So you think…?” John starts, turning to him.

“Yes.” Sherlock has plucked a photograph of John and Mary from the mantle and is studying it intently,

“Mary is part of a pattern?” John finishes,

“That’s what I said.”

“And these other women, they’ve been found?” John asks,

As if sensing a difficult conversational path Lestrade jumps in: “Most of them.”

“Most?” John is aware of how strangled his voice sounds and has to close his eyes for a moment. When he opens them it’s to see Sherlock peering minutely at the background of the photograph he is holding, the frame so close to his face that his nose must be pressed against the glass.

“Look, put that down would you?” John demands, stalking over to him and snatching it from his grasp. The action seems to have reawakened his anger, “What the hell do you mean ‘most’?” He rounds back on Lestrade.

“He means,” Sherlock replies from behind him, “That most have been found. Others are still missing.”

“None… have…?” John isn’t really sure he wants to say the question out loud.

“None have been found dead.” Sherlock rescues him, bluntly.

“So how have they been found?” John asks,

“They were just wandering around,” Lestrade answers, John turns to look at him again.

“Where?”

“Hackney marshes, Victoria Park, London Fields.” Sherlock says from behind him.

“East London?” John asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock sounds almost impressed.

“And they…?” John asks again, incompletely.

“Were found unhurt, but with no recollection of what had happened to them.” Lestrade.

“Drugged?” John asks.

“You’re a doctor.” Sherlock seems to realise.

“Yes,” John sighs “I’ve told you that over and over.”

“You’ve not told me.” Sherlock points out.

“Then how did you …?” John asks, turning back to him.

Sherlock offers up the framed medical license he’s taken from the wall.

“Really, was there any need to take that down?” John asks,

“None at all.”

“Then put it back,”

“Shortly,” Sherlock mollifies,

“How is that relevant?” John asks him, giving up.

“How is what relevant?” Lestrade.

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock says again.

“Yes,” John.

“Any good?” Sherlock.

“Very good.”

“Could be useful.”

“How?”

“A professional opinion.”

“And what would you need my professional opinion on?”

“Not this case.”

John stills.

“Well how about we focus on this case for the moment?!” John’s voice is rising again.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade cautions,

“My wife.” John says to them both, as if explaining the circumstance to an errant child, “Is missing.”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s response remains emotionless.

“And you think she’s part of a pattern?” John asks Sherlock.

Lestrade answers: “We believe that there are a number of markers in your wife’s case that match those of the other disappearances,”

“And they are?” John asks Lestrade this time, feeling faintly like a spectator at a tennis match.

“Age,” Sherlock answers, before Lestrade can open his mouth, “Income, employment status. Spouse.”

The way Sherlock says the last word makes John turn to look at him properly. He’s finished scouring the room now and instead stands calmly in the middle of it, hands buried deep in the pockets of his dramatic coat: overkill for July.

“Me?” John asks,

“Yes,” Sherlock confirms.

“How?”

“All have been the wives of professional men,”

“That describes a lot of women in London.”

“And all of the husbands were of a certain…” Sherlock falters for the first time. “Appearance.” He finishes finally.

There’s an expectant pause.

“Blonde?” John guesses pathetically when Sherlock seems to offer no further explanation.

“No,” Sherlock.

“Short?” This time John hovering on the edge of being insulted.

“No,”

“What then?”

“Men possessing of a certain degree of conventionally defined desirability,”

“I’m sorry?”

“Attractive.” Sherlock summates,

“You think I’m attractive?” There’s something about this that John finds astounding,

“If that’s what you chose to take from all this,” Sherlock’s gaze is almost threatening,

“So you think Mary has disappeared because I’m, good-looking?” Half an hour ago John would have been willing to wager good money that his evening could not get any stranger, it seems he has just lost that bet.

“It’s not quite that simple,” Lestrade’s intervention this time seems to be on the part of Sherlock rather than John.

“But I do have something to do with this?” John asks him.

“Indirectly,” Lestrade continues, “If Mary has indeed been taken by the same person or people that were involved in the other disappearances…” He looks up to Sherlock as if for confirmation, none is provided, “Then, possibly,” Another pause, “Yes.”

Stunned John lets out a short breath, sinking back into the sofa that seems to have miraculously found its way behind his knees. As he sits he realises that he’s still clutching the photo that Sherlock had been studying previously. It is of his wedding day. John and Mary standing beaming before a crowd of equally euphoric looking people. John is the happiest of all, looking as if he’s just won the lottery; his arm looped protectively around the waist of his beautiful new wife. Who has pink hair.

Did Mary always have pink hair?

“Can I ask who the woman is in the photograph is Dr Watson?” It’s Sherlock’s voice that brings John back into the room, he’s moved closer, his tall figure looming imposingly,

“It’s my wife,” John finds himself answering, more to himself than in reply to the question. “Mary,”

“Not your bride,” Sherlock corrects, “The lady in the green, to the left.”

John peers back at the photograph, forcing himself to ignore the figure in the white dress and focusing instead upon the green. He has to bring the photograph up to his face to study it, distant as she is.

“I have no idea,” John says in the end.

“Really? She seems to have attended your wedding.”

“There were a lot of people there.”

“Do you recognise anyone she is with?” Sherlock asks instead.

John pauses to study the photograph again and the men stationed on either side of her.

“One of them is Mary’s brother.” John offers.

Sherlock nods once and then crouches, a practised flick of one arm causing his coat to fan out on the floor behind him as he does so. John is so caught up in watching it that he fails to realise how close Sherlock’s face has become until he speaks.

“And what else do you notice about her?” He asks, so close John can almost feel his breath on his face. John has to force himself to look back down at the photograph.

“I’m not sure.”

“Look,” Sherlock urges

“She looks… normal,”

“You couldn’t be further from wrong if you tried,” Sherlock says with rising impatience. “Open your eyes,”

“I…” John starts,

“Open your eyes, John” Sherlock’s voice seems suddenly louder.

John looks back up at him.

Indeterminable seconds tick by as they stare.

“Sherlock, I told you to stop badgering the witness,” Lestrade says threateningly from above them.

The moment is broken. Sherlock stands quickly.

“I’m not badgering,” Sherlock repeats his earlier defence.

“Looked a lot like it.” Lestrade replies.

John can only look up at them.

“I’m not a witness.” He says dejectedly. They both turn together to look back him. “I didn’t witness anything.”

“You’re as close as we’ve got.” Lestrade answers.

“I can’t even…” John looks back down at the photograph, feeling useless. Above him Sherlock and Lestrade have started talking furiously, their words barely more than angry mutterings. Something in the photograph, John wonders, but there’s nothing there. A woman in a green dress. A lot of people looking cheerful.

“She’s not happy.” John says out loud.

The harsh whispers above him cut off sharply.

“The woman in the green dress. She’s not happy.” John repeats, looking up and finding their collective gaze fixed on him, “Everyone else is smiling, except her.”

Sherlock looks back at him with a half-smile.

“Our witness appears to have finally seen something,” Sherlock says to Lestrade.

“But that doesn’t mean anything?” John says as a question, rising to his feet again, “Does it?” He’s grown tired of having the conversation conducted over his head.

“You tell me,” Sherlock replies, as if it’s a test. “Does it?”

“She could have just been having a bad day,”

“At a stranger’s wedding?”

“Not my idea of fun,” Lestrade offers, he’s taken the photograph from John and is studying the background in much the same way the other two men had done before him.

“Exactly.” Sherlock.

“Who goes to a strangers wedding?” John again.

“Who indeed?” Sherlock agrees,

“More to the point, what was a stranger doing at my wedding?”

“Yes.”

“You think?” Lestrade asks and Sherlock turns his attention back to him.

“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Sherlock tells him calmly.

“She does fit the profile,” Lestrade again.

“What profile?” John breaks in.

“Of our kidnapper.” Sherlock tells him.

“Kidnapper!?” John asks,

“Yes,” Sherlock.

“There’s a kidnapper?”

“What did you think we were dealing with?” Sherlock again.

“But my wife can’t have been kidnaped.” Johns says, incredulous “I mean, it’s such a strong word.”

“Apt however,”

“And well… she’s an adult”

“I believe the term still applies.”

“Have you two done arguing semantics?” Lestrade’s voice breaks in to their discussion. They both turn to look at him.

“Doctor Watson,” Lestrade starts in what John assumes is his police voice,

“John,” He corrects.

“John,” Lestrade continues, “Did you say the man she is standing beside is your brother-in-law?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade looks back over at Sherlock, John forgotten again. “So you think?” Lestrade asks,

“I think you need to speak with the brother.” Sherlock tells him.

“You told them to do that earlier…” John cuts in, aiming his statement at Sherlock.

“I did?” Sherlock asks.

“You wanted to know about a ladder.” John explains.

“A ladder?”

“A green one.” John says, “But that was before you saw the picture.”

“Oh, not this case,” Sherlock says flippantly.

“But you asked about my brother.” John again,

“Your wife’s brother.” Lestrade corrects.

“Harry,” John clarifies,

“Did I?” Sherlock asks again,

“You thought he was a drinker.” John.

“You don’t have a brother.” Sherlock states calmly. Though there is no way he could know this.

“But you thought I did.” John feels far away all of a sudden.

“So Harry is your wife’s brother?” Lestrade is trying to follow what they’re saying.

“No,” John again, “She’s my sister.”

“He’s a she?” Lestrade asks.

“Yes.” Sherlock.

“And she doesn’t have a green ladder?” Lestrade.

“That was a different case.” Sherlock.

“You borrowed my phone.” John.

“I did.” Sherlock.

“He didn’t.” Lestrade.

“You knew.” John.

“I got it wrong.” Sherlock

“You did.” John.

“Your sister.” Sherlock again.

“Yes.” John.

“You need to speak to the brother.” Sherlock turns back to Lestrade.

“John’s brother?” Lestrade replies.

“Our victim’s brother.” Sherlock clarifies.

“She’s not your victim.” John says, still feeling vaguely dazed.

“No,” Lestrade.

“She’s my wife. She’s not a victim of anything.” John again.

“Possibly a kidnapper.” Sherlock points out.

“And we need to talk to the brother because?” Lestrade asks Sherlock.

“He was standing beside her in the photograph.” Sherlock.

“‘She’ being the victim?” Lestrade.

“No, the woman in the green dress. The brother might know who she is.”

“Seems unlikely,” Lestrade points out, John can only watch.

“Likely they were stood together for a long time,” Sherlock explains,

“Why’s that?” Lestrade.

“Wedding photographs can take hours.” Sherlock continues.

“And you would know that?” Lestrade asks,

“Of course I would know that, why wouldn’t I?”

“Just the idea of you at a wedding,” Lestrade concludes with a smirk.

“I’ve been to weddings.” Sherlock answers with a faint air of petulance.

“So the brother then.” Lestrade summarises, writing something in a small notebook he’s produced from his pocket. “Can you tell us his name?” He asks John.

“Chris,” John responds coming back to himself.

“Not Harry?” Lestrade asks.

“Who’s Harry?” Sherlock.

John blinks.

“Christopher Morstan.” John reiterates, as Lestrade takes it down.

“You’ll speak to him?” Sherlock asks Lestrade.

“I’ll send uniforms over there now.” Lestrade tells him.

“I’ve not spoken to him yet,” John again, “I’ve not spoken to anyone, they don’t know about Mary.”

“Probably best not to mention it to him straight away,” Sherlock suggests.

“You think he might have something to do with it?” John.

“Not at all,” Sherlock.

“Then…?” John.

“There’s no need to create unnecessary worry,”

“That’s very compassionate of you Sherlock,” Lestrade interjects “You feeling ok?”

“Fine thank you” Sherlock looks at him with an air of impatience. “Worry will only be counterproductive to extracting any useful information from the man.”

“That sounds more like you.” Lestrade nods, turning away from them to walk back towards the uniformed figures in the hallway. John watches him go, seeing him speak with one officer in particular; a bear of a man who seems to struggle to fit himself in the narrow doorway.

“How long were they missing?” John asks Sherlock quietly, without looking at him.

“Who?” Sherlock answers distractedly.

“The others.” John clarifies. “The victims,” John has a suppress and shudder at the word.

“Not long. A day or two.”

“You think it’ll be the same with Mary?”

“It’s probable.”

“She’ll just turn up again with no memory of it all?”

“That seems to be the pattern.”

“And where is she now?” It’s not really Sherlock that John’s asking the question of.

“I’m not certain yet.”

“But you have an idea?” John looks over at him, suddenly hopeful.

“Seven …so far” Sherlock is typing frantically on his phone,

“Seven?” John asks.

“Yes.”

“And Chris might be able to help you… narrow it down?”

“He may,” Sherlock finishes what he’s typing and replaces his phone in his coat, fixing John in a cool stare, “But it’s unlikely.”

“Then why ask the police to speak to him?”

“It’s good to keep them occupied.”

As if on cue Lestrade strolls back over. John turns from Sherlock to watch as he approaches.

“I think that’s all we need for now Dr Watson,” He says with an air of finality.

“John,” John corrects again automatically.

“John,” Lestrade assents. “Thank you for your time, you’ve been very useful,”

“I don’t feel like it,”

“I think we have a few things to be going on with.” Lestrade continues, “We’ll obviously keep you informed.”

“So that’s it?” John asks surprised.

“Yes.”

“You don’t need me to ‘come down the station’ or anything?”

“No need, I think we have all the information you can give us. And Sherlock seems to have…” As he speaks Lestrade looks about him. “Say, where is Sherlock?”

“He was…”

Turning John realises the space beside him is empty.

At the same moment the text alert sounds on his phone. He pulls it out to check it: 

_Woman found. Clapton Pond. –SH_


	4. Chapter 4

They meet in a pub.

John’s standing with a group of mates. Pint glass in hand. Watching as they laugh over an anecdote John hasn’t quite been able to catch the end of. Perhaps he’s getting too old for this.

“More drinks?” He asks, more to cover up his lack of understanding than anything else.

“Wouldn’t say no,” The big man beside John replies quickly in a faint cockney accent. For some reason John can’t quite remember his name. He looks around to the rest of the group instead, their muttered repetitions of assent causing him to turn finally and push himself through the crush toward the bar.

The barmaid with the pink hair is distracted when he finally makes it, the Friday night crowd meaning she probably has a lot of orders to fill before it’s his turn. He stands to wait, tramping down a vague feeling of recognition.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” A deep voice asks him without preamble from beside his left elbow.

John turns to the source in surprise.  

Despite the crowd the man seems to have found a stool and seated himself at the end of the busy bar, an almost empty glass of a clear liquid sitting before him. John takes a moment to assess him: pale face and gunmetal eyes, a kind of ethereal beauty that seems to separate him from the throng.

“Sorry?” John asks, moving from his face to take in the stranger’s smart suit and thick coat. The pub is warm, John’s sweating in his shirtsleeves, he has no idea how this man can stand it.

“Which is it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” The stranger says again, those eyes boring into John with a singular purpose.

“Afghanistan.” John replies tentatively, “Sorry, how did you…?”

But the stranger’s eyes have shifted; back at the bar over John’s shoulder.

John turns to find the barmaid smiling at him.

“What can I get you?” She asks pleasantly.

“Oh.” John remembers himself, “Five pints of Pride please.” He asks her.

She nods and turns to the pump while John turns back to the stranger.

“How did you know?” John repeats,

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military.”

“Right,” John says, unconvinced.

“You’ve been out some time though,” The stranger continues, “The fact that you’ve kept the haircut and your choice of friends…” The stranger nods to them vaguely, “Clearly ex-military. Tells me you miss it. You didn’t leave out of choice.”

John can only stare.

“Then there’s the limp you tried hard to suppress as you walked over here.” The stranger continues, his voice low and rapid, his eyes on John now without actually connecting with him. “It’s bad when you walk but you seem fine when you stand, as if you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action then. Most likely scenarios:” The man’s gaze flicks back to John’s eyes as he concludes: “Afghanistan or Iraq.”

They pause.

“Eighteen twenty,” A female voice behind John brings him back from the place he seems to have got lost in.

“Sorry?” He has to ask, turning back to the expectant looking barmaid.

“Eighteen twenty.” She says again, nodding to the full glasses now waiting for him on the bar. “Eighteen pounds twenty,”

John realises what she’s saying and hurriedly fishes out his wallet.

He hands over the cash.

When he turns back the stranger is still looking at him.

“That was… amazing,” John can’t help but say,

“That was short.” The stranger says in response, waving it away, before turning his attention back on John properly, “You think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary,”

“That’s not what people usually say.” The stranger says calmly.

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off,”

John finds himself laughing at that. The stranger takes a moment but eventually matches his smile.

“John Watson,” John offers his hand,

“Sherlock Holmes.” Says the stranger, reaching out to take it.

“You’re here alone?” John asks,

“Yes,” Sherlock answers blankly.

John contemplates him.

“Can I buy you a drink?” John can’t remember the last time he’s said this to someone in a bar.

“It seems you’ve already bought numerous,” Sherlock’s response.

“Yeah, I…” John glances back to where his friends are still standing chatting, they’re barely aware that he is gone. “I can just take these over for them and come back, if you like?”

For a long moment Sherlock watches him and John wonders whether he’s misread the situation completely.

“Very well,” Sherlock says finally.

John nods with a smile and then begins the delicate balancing act of gathering up four full pint glasses to take them across the room.

When he returns Sherlock seems to have conjured up a second bar stool, possibly from under that voluminous coat.

“What are you drinking?” John asks him, taking the seat and attempting to catch the barmaid’s eye again.

“Water,”

John looks at him.

“Really?”

“Yes,”

“Cheap date.” John replies with a shrug, turning to pass on the request.

“So,” John begins as the drink is placed before them, “Are you going to tell me how you do that?”

“Do what?” Sherlock asks.

“Read people like that,”

“I don’t read people, I read details.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I read your military career in your face and your posture and your reason for leaving in your leg. I can’t read your mind.”

“So you don’t know what I’m thinking?” John asks playfully, making a show of studying Sherlock’s face intently. Beautiful, is what he’s thinking.

“No,”

“But you were watching me?”

“I was watching the room,”

“Oh,” John says in disappointment.

“You stood out to me.” Sherlock turns his level gaze on John’s face.

“Because…?”

“You seemed interesting,”

“Have a thing for a limp?”

“It’s psychosomatic,” Sherlock clarifies,

“Yes, you said that.”

“Your therapist thinks so too.”

“You know I have a therapist?”

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp – of course you’ve got a therapist.”

John concedes, “You’re partly right. I had a therapist.”

“Not anymore?”

“No,” John leans back to his pint. “Wasn’t doing me any good.”

“I’d agree with that.”

“So have you read any other people in the room?” John asks, changing the subject.

Sherlock looks around: “A pick-pocket,” He starts, “A secret cross dresser, two, no three, serial adulterers and a man currently labouring under charges for seven separate incidents of fraud. All of which he’s guilty of, by the way.”

“Really?” Eyes wide John looks around also, at a room full of perfectly ordinary looking people, “You can see all that?”

“It’s obvious.”

“I don’t see it.”

“You do see, you just don’t observe,”

John harrumphs a little at this.

“So you do this often then?” He asks a little unoriginally instead.

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock asks,

“Sit in bars and _observe_ the clientele?”

“No,” Sherlock admits.

“So why today?”

“Bored.” Sherlock says succinctly, reaching out for his glass. “Mrs Hudson was growing tired of me shooting at the walls.”

“And Mrs Hudson is?”

“My landlady,” Sherlock takes a sip of his water “Not my housekeeper.”

“Oh,” John says in the face of more information than we was expecting. “I’m assuming you don’t mean shooting the walls literally?”

“How else would I mean it?”

“Right,”

There’s a pause as John contemplates the relative implications of the statement. However he doesn’t get very far before his chair is jostled a little from one side: a young couple trying to get to the bar. A pretty brunette and her boyfriend, holding hands. He finds himself fractionally pressed against Sherlock for a moment. Their eyes meet and catch.

“So do you do that for a living?” John falls back into polite conversation in the face of a piercing blue stare.

“Shoot at walls?” Sherlock asks, a gentle air of amusement in his face. John can’t help but notice that he hasn’t looked away.

“No,” John smiles back. “ _Observe_ ,”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers the question, “In a way,”

“In what way?

“What way do you think?” Sherlock asks. John can’t tell if it’s evasion or flirtation.

“I’m not sure.” John hesitates, “A detective perhaps?”

“A good guess,”

“So you’re a private detective?”

“A consulting detective.”

“Is that…?” John starts, feeling somehow as if he’s heard it before; he has to shake his head to clear it, “I mean, I’ve never heard of it. Is that common?”

“I’m the only one in the world.”

And John is abruptly completely overcome with the feeling that this has happened before. Those words in that order. A jaguar voice and a pale stare. Suddenly woozy John has to close his eyes against it.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks from behind John’s lids.

“I’m…” John’s voice trails off a little. His head feels like it’s swimming upstream.

“Look, you’re…”

“I’m fine,” John tries to reassure him, fails.

“You’re not…”

“No, I am,” John manages to open his eyes to look at him.

Sherlock doesn’t look convinced.

“Really,” John starts again “I am.” And as John says it he realises that he’s telling the truth, whatever it was has passed, his head is clearing. “I was just,” He pauses, unsure of how to describe it, “A little dizzy.”

“How much have you had to drink?” Sherlock eyes him warily.

“Not that much,” John smiles,

“Would it help if we got some air?” Sherlock is still concerned.

“No, no really. I’m fine.” To prove it John reaches out for his pint, taking a drink “Trust me. I’m a doctor.” He can’t resist adding.

“You are.” Sherlock doesn’t frame it as a question.

“That was a joke,”

“But you are.” Sherlock seems sure.

“Yes actually.”

“Close by?”

“No, Hampstead,”

“Trauma?” Sherlock asks

“No,” John shakes his head “Why?”

“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock says in response “An ex-army doctor,”

“Yes,”

“Seen a lot of injuries then; violent deaths,” Sherlock continues to explain his logic.

“Mm, yes” John understands.

“Bit of trouble too I bet,”

“Of course, yes, enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“So now?” Sherlock asks,

“Now? I’m a GP,”

“You were looking for something quieter?”

“Is this a job interview?” John answers the question with a question of his own, softening it with a smile.

“No,” Sherlock looks baffled. “Why would it be?”

“Just a lot of questions all of a sudden,”

“Is that wrong?”

“No,” John takes a drink again “It’s just, well, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

Sherlock looks at him, vacantly, “I don’t understand,”

“Monty Python?”

“Who’s he?”

John can’t help but laugh in wonderment.

Then he does something he hasn’t felt brave enough to do in a rather long time. He reaches out and covers Sherlock’s hand with his own.

“Look,” John starts. Sherlock’s hand is cool under his, “I could be completely off the mark with this and please tell me if I am, but…”

Sherlock is silent, expectant, his steel gaze turned wholly on John.

“Do you want to get out of here?” John asks, boldly.

Sherlock doesn’t reply for a long time. They sit looking at each other. John begins to understand what people mean when they say their heart is in their throat. He can feel it pumping there, huge and sickening.

“Your friends…” Sherlock says at last, eyes flicking across the room.

“…have barely noticed I’ve gone” John finishes for him. If he’s honest John has barely thought about them since he sat down, he finds himself wondering about their reaction if he were to ditch them unceremoniously and leave with someone. A man.

“Very well,” Sherlock agrees finally with the same affirmation as before, tilting his head forward slightly.

John lets out a laugh. Partly out of surprise, partly out of fear, but mainly because of his sheer good luck. “Really?” He asks,

“Yes.”

“Right then.” 

 

Twenty minutes later and John finds himself pressed up against the back of an unfamiliar front door.

There had been no awkward “your place or mine?” conversation as they had left the bar. Sherlock had simply sauntered out onto the pavement and flagged down a passing taxi with practised efficiency, throwing an address at the cabby through the divider without discussion.

Then it had got awkward. Having run out of small talk they had sat side by side in the back of the cab, both staring mutely out their respective windows. John had been busy running every possible version of what would happen next through his head. Wondering idly when it was he’d last done this. Or if he’d ever done this. Or who this man actually was. Or whether he had really just agreed to go to the house of a stranger who had so recently admitted that he owned a gun?

What had he been thinking?

Then John had risked a glance at the man beside him and answered his own question. Sherlock was undeniably gorgeous: marble skin and dark hair and eyes that seemed endless. John had been unable to keep his thoughts from what he would look like beneath that heavy coat and deep purple shirt.

The door had barely closed behind them before Sherlock had surged forward, any uncertainty dissolving, catching John’s face between large hands and pushing him back, fitting their mouths together confidently.

And now pressed against an unfamiliar doorway John can’t help but recognize that Sherlock kisses as he _observes_. With confidence. With intelligence, and a vague sense of spectacle.

His lips are immaculate. Soft and slick and firm and searching. It’s all John can do to keep up with them and keep upright. His hands cautiously finding their way beneath that coat, searching out the join between shirt and trouser. Beginning to tug.

Sherlock breaks their kiss suddenly. Lips not moving more than a breath away from John’s.

“Upstairs,” His voice is a hum, one that twists deliciously at the base of John’s spine.

“But…” John’s response comes out almost as a beg,

“Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock offers in explanation, gaze flicking up, John can only think he means to motion to the door behind him.

“Your landlady,” John remembers, even through a lust induced haze.

“Upstairs,” Sherlock repeats and then retreats.

The surge of cool air his withdrawing figure leaves against John is enough to spark him into action, following close on his heels as Sherlock clatters dramatically up the staircase.

Sherlock opens a door at the top to a room filled with clutter and pattern and deep warm hues that seem to somehow match the timber of his voice. However John doesn’t pause to contemplate the decoration for long, rounding instead on the figure beside him and this time it’s John that pushes Sherlock against the wall; fingers tangled in loose curls, bodies pressed as close as lips.

Sherlock moans quietly under his touch and John feels a little like he might pool into the floor at his feet. Sweet taste and soft tones and the growing tide of their desire.

The coat is on the floor now. Sherlock is all angles and sinew beneath it. John has to wonder idly how much that shirt is worth as he begins to push at it, desperate to see whether the immaculate skin of his face continues across his torso. He wants to feel it, to run his fingers and his lips across the contours and plains of it, tasting the differences in tone and texture.

While John has been distracted with clothing Sherlock has dropped his mouth to John’s neck. He’s teasing there. All tongue and teeth.  The nips make John growl slightly, giving up on undressing to press against him.

But Sherlock pushes back. Mouth and tongue and hands as he walks John confidently backward.

The back of John’s legs knock up against something hard and soft.

Sherlock breaks their kiss long enough for his hands to find the hem of John’s jumper, pulling it up and over John’s head in one smooth motion. Now just in rumpled shirt John finds himself pushed back onto the sofa behind him.

Sherlock remains standing. An ethereal dark statue in the middle of the room. Lit only by the orange glow of the streetlights outside uncurtained windows.

Sherlock takes his time.

Eyes fixed on John his fingers move to the buttons on the shirt John had spent much time worshiping. He undoes each slowly. John can only lean his head back and stare, gaze flicking desperately between burning eyes half shadowed by curls and the motion of long fingers over expensive material.

Finally, the last button free, Sherlock opens the shirt and pushes it from his back. The rolling motion of his shoulder blades like watching invisible wings unfurling behind him. The white column of his chest burns in the half light. John looks up at him. The world slowing. Contracting down to one man. A beautiful creature full of contradictions and complications. And John had met him in a bar. How mundane.

Sherlock steps forward slightly. Long legs fitting between John’s knees and John sits forward to him, tentatively reaching up to run the flats of his palms against a pale stomach, his rough hands commonplace against the elegance. For some reason he’d expected his skin to be cold. It’s not. It’s like fire.

Abruptly John wants to see more. Touch more. Running his fingers downward he pops the button on Sherlock’s trousers.

And Sherlock comes alive again – pressing forward. Ducking down. Capturing John’s lips with renewed vigour and twisting until they are laying full length on the sofa. Limbs tangled. Mouths joined. Hands and fingers and tongues. Bodies pressed close, hips beginning to grind. The upsurge of desire and stuttered breaths and catching teeth making John’s head spin.

Then a sound.

A phone, ringing.

Sherlock has pulled away in an instant. John stills in surprise.

“There’s been a fourth,” John hears him say into his phone, produced from nowhere. He's sitting bolt upright on top of John, his pale chest still glowing faintly in the dark room.

“Where?” Sherlock asks.

John watches him listen for a second.

“What’s new about this one?” Sherlock continues, “You wouldn’t have called if there wasn’t something different.”

John tips his head back into the cushions in bafflement. Sherlock listens again.

“Yeah,” He says in answer to something John can’t hear, then: “Who’s on forensics?”

John rolls his eyes a little. That explains it. This is work. Does a consulting detective get put on call? Tired of being ignored John reaches his hands back to that pale waist above him. Sherlock shoots him a look, something akin to a grimace and John isn’t sure whether he’s reacting to John’s actions or the information he’s been given from the other end of the line.

“Anderson won’t work with me,” Sherlock’s tone is matter-of-fact as he turns away.

Attention completely shifted he pulls from John’s grasp and untangles himself from the sofa, moving instead to stand in the middle of the room. John watches him go.

“I _need_ an assistant” John hears him say, though Sherlock has turned his back. He’s gone very still. “Not in a police car.” He says finally. “Don’t send one. I’ll be right there.”

Then he hangs up.

John sits up slowly. Looking over at a pale back and a tangle of curls turned away from him.

“Is it…?” John starts,

“You should go,” Sherlock cuts him off. He hasn’t turned. Instead he aims the words slightly backward over one shoulder.

“Right,” John confirms but doesn’t move.

For almost a minute they wait. Though John is uncertain what for.

Then abruptly the tranquil effigy before him leaps to life; turning to snatch his shirt and coat from the puddles they have made on the floor before disappearing through the door they had so recently entered through. From his position still rumpled on a strange sofa, John can hear as Sherlock dashes back downstairs. The front door slamming behind him with an ominous clatter of finality.

And the unfamiliar living room of a stranger’s house blinks back at John in the darkness as if confused.


	5. Chapter 5

They meet in a restaurant.

It’s a nice little place, John decides, threading his way between the tables behind his date. The décor is simple, the atmosphere warm and friendly. It had been her recommendation that they get a reservation here; she’d told him it was one of her favourites. John thinks he must have walked past the front a hundred times without looking inside.

John looks over at the woman opposite him as the waiter waves them to their seats. It’s their first date and so far it seems to be going well: a friendly greeting, a kiss on the cheek. She’d even laughed a little as John had cracked a rather lame joke about the uselessness of the London transport system, holding the door open for her to step inside.

Now in the soft light of the restaurant John can’t help but feel pretty smug. She’s pretty. Not the kind of pretty that could cause traffic accidents, but definitely the kind that can create a warm flush of joy in the pit of John’s stomach. She’s in her early thirties, her face soft and delicate, blond hair pulled back and tied in a loose knot behind her head. She’s dressed simply but flatteringly in a well cut dress in a deep purple, the colour setting off her green eyes in a way that threatens to make a pretty girl beautiful.

“You look lovely.” John speaks his mind once they are settled.

She smiles sweetly and has time to offer a bashful “Thank you,” before a large man with an animated face abruptly bustles over to their table.

“You’re here!” He cries as he reaches them, his eyes only for John’s date.

“I am,” She says up at him with a bright smile, his enthusiasm catching, “It’s good to see you,”

“Every day I miss you,” The man says with pantomime feeling and she laughs.

“This is Angelo,” She offers to John, her gaze flicking between the two of them. “Angelo and I have known each other forever.”

“Oh,” John offers in understanding, remembering the name above the door. He turns to the man politely, “Nice place you have here,”

“Thank you,” Angelo gives John his attention for a briefest moment before going back to the woman sitting opposite him, obviously expecting her to speak.

“So how is… everything?” She obliges with concern and John is cut neatly back out of the conversation.

“Wonderful.” He replies. John’s date looks confused.                         

“But…?”

“He cleared my name!” Angelo.

“Who did?” She asks,

“Sherlock Holmes!” Angelo all but cries, “He’s sitting just over there.” He motions to a man sitting alone at a table, his pale skin and dark curls highlighted by the glow of Northumberland Street outside the window.

As he hears his name the man looks over to them languidly, causing Angelo to make a beckoning motion in his direction.

“Sherlock!” Angelo calls, and the man rises obediently, coming forward.

“Sherlock,” Angelo continues as he reaches them. “This,” He says for emphasis “This is the lady I’ve been telling you about!”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice is cool and deep, somehow perfectly befitting the rather theatrical bearing of his features. “It’s good to meet you,” He says as Angelo presents John’s date to him.

“And you,” She smiles back at him equally coolly. “I presume he’s only been telling you good things?” She asks.

“Of course!” Angelo breaks in.

“You and he go back a long time.” Sherlock tells her.

“He told you all that?” She asks,

“In detail,” Sherlock says with a slight smile. There’s a weighted pause.

“Sherlock cleared my name!” Angelo repeats to her, jumping back in when the conversation appears to be failing.

“I cleared it a bit,” Sherlock qualifies to her.

“Nothing! But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.” Angelo again.

 “You did go to prison.” Sherlock tells him.

This time the pause is awkward.

“I’m sorry,” John’s date says finally, she seems to have suddenly remembered that John is in the room. “This is John,” She says to them both.

As one the two men turn to look at him and John finds he can only really think to smile in response, a little bashful of his complete redundancy up until this point.

“John’s in the army,” She offers, as if feeling she should make up for ignoring him up to now by showing him off. Or perhaps, John thinks, she feels needs to boast of his achievements in comparison to Sherlock’s.

“You’re a soldier?” Angelo asks.

“Medic,” John corrects,

“He’s a soldier _and_ a doctor,” The woman across the table from him offers with pride.

“You’re on a date!” Angelo realises aloud with a concerning amount of surprise.

“Well yes,” She laughs, a little uncomfortably.

“This is my mistake!” Angelo has stepped back a little. He turns to Sherlock “It seems you are too late,” He offers, shaking his head.

Sherlock can only look back at him with a half-smile and not for the first time John gets the impression that they are all just playing along with a farce created entirely in Angelo’s imagination.

“And after I told you such wonderful things about her…” Angelo continues gloomily to Sherlock,

“My loss, I’m sure.” Sherlock offers to them all, a smile still tugging at his eyes.

They all look at each other for moment, the threat of laughter bubbling under the surface.

Then abruptly something shifts: a tone, a feeling, an aura of something not quite in the room. John feels disconcertingly like some unseen finger has pressed the pause button.

Sherlock has turned to look in his direction, properly for the first time, the full force of a cold stare turned solely on him.

“John,” He says slowly, voice a growl of baritone.

The rest of the room fades away.

The chatter and the laughter and the noise; the scraping of chairs and the hum of conversation. It’s no longer there.

Instead John sits alone beneath the searchlight of a stare, looking upward at a stranger with a strange sense of vertigo.

“John,” Sherlock says again. “Can you hear me? You have to come back.”

John attempts to open his mouth to say something, but his throat is blocked.

“Mrs Hudson is out of her mind with worry,” Sherlock continues, his tone softening a little but his eyes never losing their intensity, “I can barely deal with her. You need to come back, John. You need to come back and deal with her.”

A pause.

“John,” He says again.

They stare at each other. John is studying the disconcertingly familiar slant of a stranger’s features.

And then Sherlock blinks.

And looks away.

As suddenly as it began it is over. The moment lost. The scene has reset, noise resurfacing, the warmth of the room and the hum of the voices and the delicious smells from the kitchen.

John becomes aware that three people are all looking at him as if expecting him to reply.

“I’m sorry?” Is all he can think of to say.

“Sherlock is leaving,” His date tells him pleasantly. The scene seems to have continued on while John was no longer a player in it.

“Oh,” John is still dazed. “Oh, right.”

“Well Angelo,” Sherlock says graciously, rescuing John somewhat, “Thank you for the food,”

“Any time Sherlock.” Angelo replies with feeling. “Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free!”

Sherlock thanks him with a nod, before turning to offer the same to the two seated at the table.

They all watch him as he walks away.

It is Angelo that breaks the silence.

“I’ll get a candle for the table.” He says, with a grin, Sherlock already forgotten. “It’s more romantic.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a 221b - just because I wanted to...

They meet on a tube.

John sits alone in a crowd on the platform. Waiting.

When he’d set out this morning it had been with the intention of getting some air; a stroll through a park. A coffee perhaps. He’s not sure what he was thinking. A cripple. On a walk.

He doesn’t feel like he’s slept in weeks. The nightmares. Perhaps he’s delirious.

He’d got the tube instead.

A distant rattle and warm surge of air denotes the imminent arrival of the next train. John lumbers forward with his cane. To the edge. Finds himself eyeing the track experimentally. _We are sorry for the delay; this was due to a person under a train at Russell Square._ It’s only one step forward.

John stands still.

When he does step out it’s onto a carriage full of bored looking passengers. He has to limp through them to find a space. Cursing his leg. Cursing them.

In his distraction he barely notices as someone leaps from the seat before him, his long coat billowing around him.

“Would you like to sit down?” A deep voice asks.

He’s seen the cane.

Mortified John can barely look at him as he takes the offered place, only looking up to offer thanks in time to watch the train doors close on the stranger’s retreating back.


	7. Chapter 7

They meet in a hospital.

“So,” John offers in greeting as he rounds the flimsy wall of curtain in a treatment room. “Good afternoon, Mr…?”

The patient he is addressing is an older man, sitting perched on the side of the bed as if about to topple off it. A weathered looking golden retriever is sitting obediently at his side.

The question dies on John’s lips.

“I’m sorry,” John says instead “We don’t allow dogs in here.”

“I couldn’t leave her outside,” The patient replies a matter-of-factly.

“You couldn’t?” John asks,

“Well, no”

“I realise you may be attached Sir…” John starts,

“More than attached,” The patient qualifies.

“Really?”

“Well yes.” The man says with amusement, “She’s my eyes.” He finishes with a smile, his sightless stare giving the gesture a vague quality.

John looks back at the chart he’s been handed on his way into the room. Yes. Stupid. The moment his beautiful dream had been shattered by his monotone alarm at some god-forsaken hour this morning he’d known that today couldn’t possibly be a good one.

“Are you behaving, Dad?” A female voice chimes brightly from behind John, rescuing him. He turns in time to see a woman breeze past him, three boys under the age of ten trailing at her heels.

The artificial room created by the drawn curtains seems suddenly over-crowded.

“Of course I am,” The patient says,

“Should I believe that?” She asks John with a smile,

John can only look back at her.

“And why shouldn’t you?” The patient asks her instead, the lightness of his tone belying the shortness of his words.

“I know what you’re like.”

“I’m just giving this doctor here a moment to catch up with my notes.”

“Well,” John addresses him, finding his voice, “I appreciate that sir”

He can’t help but smile, wondering whether the good humour could be catching.

Then one of the boys kicks him.

And any possibility that his day might improve is dispelled as swiftly as the kick is executed.

“John!” The mother cries in horror, amusement dissolving.

John has to look up to catch the angle of her gaze before he realises that it’s not him that’s being chastised but the child. He watches as the mother stalks over to drag the child-John away, a vague recollection appearing unbidden in his mind of a tired smile and untouched milkshakes.

“Little scamps,” The man says from the bed, interrupting John’s thoughts.

“Little brats,” The mother offers instead to John under her breath. Leading John-the-younger out of the curtained area with such force that the child is practically suspended aloft by his left forearm.

The other two boys follow her out obediently.

“Sorry about that.” The patient says,

“That’s,” John’s unsure where to start, “No problem,”

“He’s in the kicking phase.”

“You knew he kicked me?” John asks, surprised that a blind man seems to have seen so much.

“The un-mistakable sound of a child’s foot connecting with the shin of a medical professional,” The man smiles,

And John laughs.

“It’s quite unique,” The patient continues.

“Really?”

“Absolutely, I just hope it wasn’t your bad leg.” The patient says.

“I’m sorry?” John asks, off kilter for a moment.

“Your bad leg. You favour one over the other,” The man says confidently. “You have a limp?”

“A limp?” John asks confused.

Then his beeper goes off.

“You need to get that?” The patient asks, his previous statement forgotten.

“I…” John’s about to answer in the affirmative when a voice rings out over the loudspeaker above them.

_“Dr Watson. Dr Watson to exam room one.”_

The amplified voice manages to sound both calm and desperate in equal measure.

“You should definitely get that.” The patient says.

“Yes.” John confirms, already turning “Yes I definitely should. I’m sorry.”

The patient offers a nod in response.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” John promises as he disappears.

 

The scene that awaits him in exam room one is exactly the kind he was expecting.

The patient is tall and angular. Long limbs lashing out at bodies around him as three separate figures try and keep him on a gurney. The long dark coat he’s wearing only seems to complicate matters, billowing out threateningly when he moves his arms or legs.

“What the hell?!” John’s voice is a little too loud as he moves forward into the room, arms reaching out to the patient’s shoulders in an attempt to press him back against the bed.

The man only seems to growl in response, writhing.

“When he arrived he was perfectly calm,” The trauma nurse calls back in response from her position just a little too close to the patients flailing left arm, “We have no idea what set him off,”

“And how did he arrive?” John asks, he has to raise his voice above the noises the man is making.

“His brother brought him in,” The nurse replies,

“And where’s the brother now?” John looks over at her for an instant and catches a flash of bright green eyes. 

“No idea, doctor,”

John has produced a pen light from the top pocket of his scrubs; he flashes it quickly in the patient’s eyes.

“He’s high,” John announces, pressing back as the man surges forward again beneath his restraining touch.

“Can we give him something to calm him down?” The green-eyed nurse asks,

John considers it for a moment. The patient still flailing wordlessly between all of them.

“I wouldn’t want to risk it. We don’t know what he’s on.” John says decisively.

“Restraints?” The nurse suggests instead.

“Looks like it’ll have to be.” John’s tone is defeated, even as he holds a stranger down. “Soft ones.” He clarifies, eyeing the thinness of the man’s wrists. He looks like a strong wind could blow him over.

But then a particularly well aimed kick from a skinny leg catches John square in the gut and he’s pushed backwards. All sympathy for the man fades with the pain.

“But make them tight,” He calls, as the porters and nurses go to work to pin down the patient’s limbs. “And for god’s sake find the brother.” John turns to leave.

 

It’s three hours later when he’s able to go back.

The room is quiet now, almost unrecognisable as the one he’d walked into earlier that day. The patient’s restraints have been removed and he lies huddled on his side on the bed, the absence of his dramatic coat making him appear pale and fragile in what John recognises with surprise as a rather expensive suit.

From the doorway he’d appeared to be sleeping, but as John moves forward he can see that the patient’s eyes are open. They’re striking. So pale that they make the dark circles beneath them stand out like bruises.

“How are you feeling?” John asks him, reaching the bedside.

“Like death.” The patient responds, his voice a low growl.

“You look like it,”

“Thanks.” The man offers back with sarcasm.

“You were pretty wound up when you came in.”

“Yes,” The patient’s stare flicks away from him.

“Can I ask why?” John asks.

“Bad day.”

John snorts a little in dark amusement, leaning down to inspect the chart. A series of data. No name.

“You took my coat,” The patient says before John can say anything more.

“Yes, it’s here somewhere.” John casts around, before noticing the way the patient is holding himself. “Are you cold?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get the nurse to bring you a blanket.”

“Thank you,” The patient’s voice is as dark as the bruises of his eyes.

“Do you have a name?” John asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me it?”

There’s a pause.

“Please,” John adds.

“Sherlock.”

John moves to write it down on the chart.

“First name or last?” He has to ask.

“Sherlock Holmes.” The patient clarifies.

“You didn’t tell the nurses that?”

“They didn’t ask politely.”

“Right.”

John makes the note.

“You came in with your brother?” John asks,

“Yes,” Sherlock.

“You’ve seen him since?”

“No.” A stilted pause, “Neither have the nurses.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If they had they would have taken my name from him.”

“Good point.”

“He’s a busy man.” Sherlock says without emotion.

“So busy he can’t stay with his brother in hospital?”

“Yes.”

“But not too busy to bring you in the first place?”

“If he were here he’d tell you he worries.”

“He seems to have reason to.” John points out.

Sherlock remains silent.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re taking?” John asks.

“Pointless.”

“Why?”

“You’ve done your tests, it’s written on the chart.”

John looks down, though he knows it is indeed already written there.

“How long have you been using?” John asks instead,

“How long is a piece of string?” Sherlock replies evasively.

“I don’t know.” John replies calmly. “How long?”

“Since I was a teenager. Off and on.”

“Off and on?” John asks.

“Yes.”

“That means you’ve tried to get clean before?”

“I succeeded, for a while.”

“When was that?”

“Three years ago.”

“Why did you go back?”

“Bored.”

The man’s word seems to hold an ocean of feeling.

John stares. Watches Sherlock shiver.

“I’ll get you that blanket,” John says walking away.

When he comes back moments later it’s with the promised blanket and a battered plastic chair. He spreads the former over the huddled figure on the bed, setting the chair beside him, close to his face.

“I thought you were asking a nurse?” Sherlock says after a moment, referring to the blanket, offering no thanks.

“They’re busy. Thought I’d get it myself,”

“Your shift is over.” Sherlock doesn’t frame it was a question.

“Yes.” John confirms.

“You’re still here.”

“I thought we could talk.”

“Why?”

“You seem interesting.” John says.

“I do?” Sherlock seems genuinely surprised.

“Yes.”

They contemplate each other. Sherlock’s face seems less pale now against the faded grey blue of the hospital blanket rather than the deep purple of his shirt.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asks.

“I’m sorry?”

If John had been expecting him to say anything, this wasn’t it.

“Which is it – Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock repeats.

“Afghanistan.” John replies.

They watch each other again.

“Have you been talking to the nurses?” John asks,

“No.”

“Then how did you…?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

Moments tick by. John internally questions why he’s here. He can’t offer any treatment. Not really. Everything they can do has already been done. He should stop torturing himself.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asks. Again John is surprised by his question.

“John,” John replies automatically, before remembering himself, “Doctor Watson.”

“I’ve not seen you before.” Sherlock states.

“You’re a regular here?”

“Where’s here?” Sherlock asks

“Royal Free,” John names the hospital they’re currently seated in.

“Hampstead.” And Sherlock puts a place to the name.

“Yes.”

“Then no.”

A pause.

“You’re a regular somewhere else?” John asks.

“Not if I can help it.”

Silence again.

“I miscalculated,” Sherlock says finally.

“I’d say,”

“You see a lot of this?” Sherlock asks, referring to himself. He’s still shivering.

“Far too much,” John responds with feeling.

“Never thought of being a nice comfortable GP?”

“Wouldn’t suit me.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” Sherlock seems to understand. “Not after the army.”

“How did you know about that?” John asks again.

Sherlock doesn’t reply, shuts down.

It’s approaching a full minute before he says anything again:

“How long have you worked here?”

“Just over three years,” John states coolly.

“Since you got back?”

“From Afghanistan. Yes”

“I hate hospitals.” Sherlock.

“So do I,” John admits.

“Interesting choice of profession,”

“Interesting choice of recreation.” John counters.

“Touché”

Another pause.

“I miss you,” Sherlock says in exactly the same tone as before.

“I’m sorry?”

“I miss you, John,” Sherlock repeats, his pale eyes locked on John but not quite focusing.

John looks back.

“You need to come back,” Sherlock again.

John swallows. For some reason he’s afraid.

The figure on the bed starts speaking again: “Cases don’t work without you.”

“I’m sorry,” John starts slowly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock doesn’t appear to listen.

“Do you hear me John?” He asks instead, reality tilting. “You need to come back.”

John feels sick.

“Open your eyes John.” Sherlock says firmly.

Unaware that he has closed them John forces his eyes open.

And suddenly finds that their positions have been reversed.

He is no longer the one sitting beside a figure lying on a bed. Instead that same figure is sitting sentry above him while he is the one lying beneath the blankets.

John looks up him. Sherlock. Eyes wide with surprise.

“John?” This seated figure of Sherlock asks.

John blinks.

“John,” Sherlock repeats, “Can you hear me?”

There’s something expectant in his tone, his eyes darting left and right across John’s face.

“John,” He repeats.

John can’t find his voice.

Sherlock continues to watch him with concern, eyes cool and steady before his gaze shifts quickly to something just out of John’s line of sight. John becomes aware of movement around them. Of voices and action.

“He’s…” He can hear Sherlock say. Not at him. Then he closes his eyes.

That room fades away.

When he opens them again John is looking down at a shivering dark stranger lying on his side on a hospital bed. John is wearing his usual scrubs. Can remember the coffee he’s just finished in the doctors lounge. Knows that today is Thursday and that tomorrow he has a date.

His pager goes off. John scrambles to silence it.

“Your shift is over,” The shivering Sherlock says; a statement of fact.

“It is,” John replies, checking the message.

“Don’t get it.” It sounds vaguely like an order.

“Hm?”

“If your shift is over there is no reason for you to respond to that page.”

“No,”

“You’re going to get it,”

“I probably should,”

“You care too much,” Sherlock states calmly.

“Is that a failing?”

“It can be.”

“Better than caring too little.”

“If you say so,” Sherlock says blankly.

“I should go,” John says.

“You won’t see me again.” Sherlock’s words sound like a threat.

“I’d rather hope not.”

“No more miscalculations,”

“You need to get clean,” John says instead “I can give you some information…”

“I have it all,” Sherlock cuts him off.

John nods, resigned. He had been pretty sure that that would be the kind of answer he’d get. He tries a different tack:

“Is someone going to come for you?” John asks,

“I doubt it.”

“Your brother?”

“Is busy.”

“But…”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I…”

“You care too much.” Sherlock repeats.

“I can’t help it.”

John’s standing now. He really does need to answer the page.

“Look after yourself.” John offers uselessly.

Sherlock snorts.

“Or try.” John tries again.

“I’ll try.” Sherlock doesn’t sound convincing.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Not a lot you can do about that.”

“You’re right.” John responds, resigned.

“Goodbye, John”

 

When John gets chance to look in again an hour later the bed is empty. Somehow he’s not surprised.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

They meet on Baker Street.

John had been in Sainsbury’s when he met her: the fragile looking older lady with a floral blouse and a sparkle in her eye. She’d stalked past him with her three heavy shopping bags and almost made it out the door before one carrier had split, littering the floor with an array of recently purchased foodstuffs.

John had immediately rushed to her aide. Helping her scoop things back into the bags hastily provided in replacement and then, because seemingly this is the sort of man he is, he’d asked if she needed any help carrying them.

It had turned out that she did. But, she assured him, he needn’t worry, she lived close by.

“I was just popping out for a few things for Sherlock,” She tells him pleasantly as they walk side by side some minutes later, John bearing the brunt of the carrying duties and feeling faintly relieved that she hadn’t attempted to carry everything on her own.

 “The things he gets up to,” She continues before John gets chance to ask who Sherlock is, “And the hours he keeps. He knows I’m not his housekeeper, but sometimes I just can’t help myself. He needs a bit of looking after.”

As she elaborates John has the bizarrely pleasant sensation of being present only as her obedient sounding board.

“Perhaps one day he’ll settle down,” She continues, John can’t remember if he’s actually contributed a word. “Difficult when you’re always dashing about, but you never know. If he met the right person. Someone who’ll put up with his silliness. Someone to look out for him. A nice girl is what he needs, or maybe a nice man, I suppose.” Her eyes seem to drift over to John as if remembering he is there “You wouldn’t be…?”

John struggles for air for a moment.

“Oh don’t worry,” She starts again brightly, “There’s all sorts round here.” She drops her voice somewhat conspiratorially, “Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones. But there I go getting ahead of myself. Setting you up before I even know your name!”

She peers at him and John is aware it is his turn to speak.

“John,” He stutters, “John Watson.”

“Oh Mr Watson!” She cries pleasantly, “Well, you are my knight in shining armour today,”

“It’s Doctor actually,” John finds himself correcting,

“A doctor!” Her sunshine mood seems to step up a notch, “No wonder. I could see that you know, you’re the caring type, I can tell. The way you stepped in when I was in such a fix. And offering to help me home! You really would be a right one to look after my Sherlock. If I was the matchmaking kind… I wonder if he would,”

John has opened his mouth to inform her that he isn’t actually that way inclined, but he quickly realises that this bit of information probably wouldn’t change anything.

“Oh but I haven’t asked!” She continues and John wonders if she can read minds. “You’re not married?”

“No,” John has decided to just go along with it now.

“Well then. Why’s that? Nice young man like you. Caring. A doctor! I’d have thought you have them lined up down the street. But you’re seeing someone?”

“No, not that either,” He replies with a smirk, mentally preparing himself for whatever she’ll offer in reply to this.

“Well good for you,” She replies, executing a spectacular one-eighty. “No need to tie yourself down too soon. You’re a young man.”

John politely decides not to point out that she was so recently eager to set him up with whoever this Sherlock chap is.

“Well now, I told you it wasn’t far,” She continues, “This is me, just up ahead.” They’ve turned onto Baker Street and a line of straight-backed terraces rises up beside them. She stops at 221: a plain looking door beside a café.

“Will you be alright from here?” John asks, putting the bags down at his feet and wondering idly whether this particular fit of chivalry will result in him putting away shopping and drinking tea all afternoon in a stranger’s kitchen. There could be worse ways to spend the day, John thinks.

“Oh, I’ll be fine dear. I’m on the ground floor…” She starts and John is pretty sure would continue if the door didn’t suddenly open before her, revealing a tall energetic figure in a long coat and blue scarf.

“Sherlock!” She cries as she sees him, and John has to admit that everything he’s heard about him up until this point seems to make a little bit more sense.

“Sorry Mrs Hudson,” The man tells her, striding past them and onto the pavement. “I’ll skip the tea. Off out”

“You are?” She asks him.

“Yes Mrs Hudson,” He says as he whirls back, coat fanning out artistically as he moves. “Impossible suicides!” He announces and for a second John is taken aback. “Four of them! There’s no point in sitting at home when there’s finally something _fun_ going on!”

And he concludes this bizarrely enthusiastic speech by grasping her firmly by the shoulders and kissing her noisily on the cheek.

John can only stand and watch.

“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent,” Mrs Hudson replies, her tone sounding more as if she’s in receipt of a compliment rather than an explanation of what sounds like a violent crime. Four violent crimes.

“Who cares about decent!?” The man exclaims, stepping firmly toward the road and flagging down the taxi that has miraculously materialised there, “The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!” He concludes dramatically, slamming the car door behind him.

The two of them are left standing on the pavement, surrounded by shopping bags and, at least on John’s part, a strange sense of bewilderment.

“Good luck finding a girl for that one.” John says finally.

Mrs Hudson just laughs and bats him playfully on the arm.

“Tea?” She asks.


	9. Chapter 9

They meet in a club.

The kind of club that John wouldn’t admit to occasionally frequenting if any of the guys in his unit were to ask.  Not that they would, John thinks, what happens on leave, stays on leave. Seventy two hours of heady freedom. Freedom from drills and uniforms and the hot, faceless monotony of his Hippocratic burden. John has intended to take advantage of every moment of it. Which explains why he’s here; shirtless amid a throng of throbbing bodies; moving in strobe against a soundtrack of drum and pop.

Soho.

Why not?

John struggles to remember quite how he got here. Something to do with a guy who had reminded John of someone he used to know, stopping to talk to him on the street as they both wound their rather convoluted ways home from a bar. Something about that guy’s rather flirtatious suggestion that home and comfort and sleep and water were for the weak. The strong came here instead. The strong shucked off their shirt and pushed themselves between the writhing figures on the floor to pulse and jump and shout and dance.

So John dances, not too far gone to notice that of the people dancing by his side the vast majority are men: tall and short and big and small and blonde and brunette and muscled and slim and completely clothed and… not, but patently male, shockingly male. It’s not a surprise. This isn’t the first time he’s been to such a place, probably won’t be the last and though it’s not something John will shout from the hilltops when he’s dressed in full fatigues it’s not something he’ll be ashamed of.

There’s one figure he’s noticed in particular. Dancing alone amid the crowd, long body lithe and pale beneath a deep purple shirt open at least two buttons too many. Though the space surrounding them is full of touching hands, of stroking and rubbing and grinding, no one seems to feel it fitting to touch this figure, encased as he is in an aura of unattainability. Even his dancing has elegance, long limbs keeping time in a manner that should be clumsy but somehow isn’t. John is entranced, finds himself staring, before realising that a pair of pale steel eyes have turned to stare back at him.

They watch each other from two paces apart. Still moving to the music. John is aware of a hand on his own shoulder but he doesn’t turn to assess the owner, instead he moves with it and finds a stranger’s body pressed up against his back: a strong chest and muscular legs and obvious arousal grinding against his behind. It’s on the edge of the explicit but somehow the intimacy with which that distant stranger is watching is more sexual, more honest than any dry humping with a faceless dance partner. As John stares back the man’s full lips draw together, his tongue darting out to wet them and John’s breath hitches. He’s disentangled himself from the grinder’s grip in an instant, stepping forward.

To John’s delight the dark stranger does the same, pressing forward as much as the throng will allow. They stalk each other. Finally coming close enough for John to appreciate the details of that smooth face curled down above him, dark damp curls clinging a little to the edges of his forehead, spectral eyes drawing him in. Their lips ghost so close they can taste each other’s breath.

They move together now, John’s hands coming up to the man’s waist, gripping and circling, moving their bodies together with the music. Glancing and swaying and touching. The rise and ebb of the music matched with the tide of their dancing bodies. The stranger’s hands move slowly to John; long fingers running across his bare chest, tracing collarbones as if examining them before one hooks beneath the chain of the army dog-tags that still lie around John’s neck.

The man uses them as a tether, pulling John closer, curving and capturing John’s mouth against his own in one movement.

John is lost. The throb of the music, the press of the bodies, the heat and the light and the sound and this mouth; the lips and the teeth and the cool surge of a hot tongue. Heady with desire they continue to dance together. The slick press of limbs and torso and faces. They move and stroke and kiss and hold. Hands searching. Lips taking all they can from the other. All the while watching. Eyes locked together.

But something isn’t quite right with those eyes. Irises so pale they blur into the whites, pupils wide pits of desire. Too wide.

Even through the heady fuzz of sex and music and alcohol John understands that this is too much. He draws back a little, seeing for the first time the man’s frame, the pallor of his skin, the deep hollows beneath his cheekbones. Through their touches John’s fingers move to the soft press of the man’s inner arm, pushing up at the sleeve of his shirt and dropping his eyes to the skin revealed.

The angry contusions of track marks are obvious even in the darkness.

Abruptly John stops dancing. Stops moving. His eyes searching something out from the stranger before him. The man looks back with a disconnected air of calm. Unapologetic.

John draws away. This is suddenly something, someone, that he intensely does not what to be involved with.

He turns and pushes himself away through the crowd.


	10. Chapter 10

They meet in a park.

John is on his way home, cane in hand, cursing every other step as his bad leg jolts against the pathway.

“John!” A voice behind him calls abruptly, “John Watson!”

John stops, turning to see a man rise from the bench he’s just hobbled past. It seems to take a long time; his long dark frame extenuated by a longer darker coat. Above it a thick black head of hair and a pale face, wide eyes looking down at him expectantly.

“Stamford.” The figure says, hurrying toward John and offering a hand “Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.”

John stares back at him with a sense of peculiar unreality. This man looks nothing like the Mike Stamford he knew at Bart’s.

“Yes,” He finds himself saying however. Covering for his total lack of understanding with a polite lie, even if the tone he delivers it in is one of complete disbelief. He takes the offered hand. “Hello, hi,”

“Yeah, I know,” The man claiming to be Stamford gestures to himself with a sheepish grin, “I got fat.”

John looks at the man’s skinny frame in bewilderment.

“No,” Is all he can think of to say in response.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere,” The man continues. “Getting shot at. What happened?”

John backs away a little at that, contemplating the question.

“I got shot.” He says honestly.

There’s an awkward pause.

“Look who are you?” John breaks it in an accusatory tone.

“What?”

“I know you’re not Stamford. You look nothing like him.” John’s run out of patience for whatever game this stranger is playing with him.

“I…”

“We knew each other for years, he was…” John casts around, then looks up into the stranger’s eyes. “Shorter. Less…” John gestures around his head with the hand not holding on to his cane. “…hair!” He finishes.

“I,” The man repeats.

“And he _was_ getting fat. You look like you’ve not eaten in weeks.”

The man in front him opens and closes his very un-Mike-like mouth as if unable to articulate a response.

“There’s no way someone changes…” John starts before stopping himself mid -sentence with a thought.

“Look is this a joke?” He asks, exasperated. “Did Mike put you up to this? Some elaborate ruse to humiliate the cripple?!”

 “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Not-Mike manages rather apprehensively,

“He’s watching now isn’t he?!” John’s words are heavy with anger, “He’s waiting in the bushes somewhere. To jump up out and yell: ‘ _Surprise! You’re an idiot_ ’!”

Despite the cane John is stalking forward, toward a conveniently located shrubbery at the edge of the path. Behind it he completely expects he’ll find a crouching man looking up at him: glasses and a ruddy face and a suit that’s a little too tight for him.

Of course there’s nothing there.

And of course when he turns back to the man who claims to be someone that he so clearly is not, the path is empty.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

They meet on a rooftop.

John finds himself opening the door and stepping out between concrete sky and concrete floor with little idea of how he came to be there.

“A jumper,” One of the nurses had told him as he was wrapping up his shift, “On the roof. Causing a bit of a stir,” she’d added as blue lights had flashed past the window, reflecting tiltingly on the vibrant pink of her hair.

So now John is standing alone on a roof, somehow completely at the centre of the incident without meaning to be at all. Or perhaps he had. He can’t quite remember.

“Hello?” He calls, moving forward, unsure whether it was just some kind of vicious rumour. As far as he can see the rooftop is empty.

“Is there anyone there?” He asks, the wind snatching the words from his mouth as he says them.

He steps forward a little further, skirting the edge of a ventilation duct and looking around at the rest of the space. Then sees him: a tall figure looming vividly against the pale London sky, some distance away and far too close to the edge. The man’s height is exaggerated by the fact that he stands balanced on the concrete lip running around the edge of the roof – a thick raised foot of stone between them and the sudden drop to the pavement.

“Hello?” John repeats with more purpose now, edging forward slowly.

The man is turned away from him, staring down at the street below, dark hair above a long winter coat, flapping nauseatingly in the wind.

“What are you doing here?” A low rumble of a voice asks, so calmly it takes John by surprise.

“I,” John stammers, unsure, “I heard there was someone up here.”

“Are you with the police?”

John is too far away to see what the stranger is watching but he assumes it may be the distant black shells of uniforms moving around on the ground.

“No,” John replies firmly.

“Then what are you doing here?” The stranger seems to take a long time over each word.

“I thought,” John starts, realising he has no idea of how to end the sentence, “I thought I might be able to help.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I’m a doctor.” Is the only thing John can think of to reply.

“A therapist?”

“No,” John swallows, “A trauma surgeon.”

“This isn’t surgery.”

“No,”

The man hasn’t turned. John can only stand alone in the middle of a roof and talk to the man’s back, but at least that’s something.

“So what is this?” John continues by asking.

“This is what has already happened.” The man says heavily.

A pause. John wonders if he heard him correctly.

“I’m sorry?” John asks.

“This is inevitable.” The man says.

“It doesn’t have to be.” John offers what he thinks is the right thing to say, stepping forward a little. The man doesn’t turn but senses his movement, angling his face over his shoulder toward him without meeting his eye.

“Turn around and walk the back the way you came, now.” The man’s voice orders, calmly.

John swallows, staring back at him uncertainly. Then his resolve solidifies.

“No,” He replies.

“Just do as I ask,” The man turns back from his shoulder and looks out again into the emptiness, adding: “Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” John says.

There’s a pause.

“But I won’t come any closer. If that’s what you want?” John offers instead.

He receives no answer.

They stand in silence for some immeasurable amount of time: two figures, on a roof.

“What’s your name?” John asks finally.

There’s a pause before the man replies.

“Are you attempting to relate to the subject?” His voice is like velvet.

“You aren’t a subject.” John replies.

“But you are attempting to relate to me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was being polite.”

“This doesn’t seem like the time to be polite.”

“No,” John says, the feeling of the surreal slowly descending.

“So why know my name?” The man seems happy to talk.

John sighs, deciding he has no idea how to deal with this other than to be himself.

“It seems easier than to referring to you as ‘the jumper’ in my head.”

“That implies you think I’m going to jump?”

“That does seem like your intention, yes”

“Should you be putting such thoughts in my mind?”

“I think the long drop is doing that better than I can.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not exactly trained for this.” John admits.

“You’re trained for surgery.” The man offers instead.

“Yes.” John agrees “Need an appendix taken out?”

Now he’s attempting humour. This really is a high-emotion situation.

The man doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even crick his neck again in the direction that John is standing.

“No,” The stranger answers calmly.

“Well then,” John sighs, “We didn’t cover talking people down from ledges between appendectomies.”

“So what made you think you were qualified to come up here and ‘talk me down’?”

That question again.

“Look,” John starts, “I’ll level with you. I have no idea.”

The man doesn’t reply. John presses on.

“I heard that someone, a jumper, was up here and, well, I guess that’s you.” John stammers, “And I thought, well, I thought I needed to try and help.”

“No one else did.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No one else. No one else is here.”

“No…” John says, his denial is an agreement.

“A hospital full of people and there is no one else here.”

“Well, yes, you have a point.” John has to pause. That does seem a little odd.

“Not even the police.”

“They’re down there?” John asks, wondering faintly whether it is indeed a good idea to keep bringing this stranger’s attention back to the gulf before him, but, well, John would be surprised if he hadn’t already noticed it by now.

“Yes.” The stranger says in response, not obviously tipping his head to observe.

“They must be taking their time.” John says.

“Yes,” The stranger agrees.

“Yes.” John repeats, more to himself than to this man.

“Or they have a reason not to be here.” The stranger offers.

“They are here.” John points out.

“They are down there. Not up here.”

“You’re telling me they have reason not to get too close?”

“Maybe.” The stranger offers cryptically.

“Well that would be because they wouldn’t want to risk you jumping.”

“You have no such fears.”

“Well, if you really wanted to do it you would, whether I was here or not.” John says, almost thoughtlessly.

“Yes.” The stranger says firmly and shifts slightly.

For a terrifying moment John thinks he has just killed a man.

“D…!” John starts to yell, lurching forward a little.

But the stranger hasn’t jumped.

“You really haven’t been trained for this.” The stranger purrs, an undertone of something like amusement.

John is breathing too hard.

“Tell me why they won’t come up here.” John says firmly.

“I’m not sure you’re in a position to be making demands.”

“I…” John starts.

“Sherlock.” The man says instead.

“I’m sorry?”

“My name, is Sherlock.”

“So you’ll answer that question but not the other?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

John isn’t really sure where else to go.

“What kind of a name is Sherlock?” John asks finally.

“One my mother gave me.”

“And is she the reason you’re…?” John can’t seem to make small talk in the face of the fact that this man remains inches away from a thirty foot drop.

“Don’t be petty.”

“Okay.”

An awkward pause.

“So,” Johns says when the silence reaches its peak. “I should probably ask if you’d come away from the edge?”

“I was wondering when you would get to that.” Sherlock replies. He still hasn’t turned.

“I told you I wasn’t trained for this.”

“If it is all the same to you I don’t think I will.”

“It’s not all the same to me.”

“Still.” Sherlock tips his head to one side.

“I would really like it if you came down from there.” John reiterates.

“And now we get to the begging portion of the conversation?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

“If you won’t, then tell me why.” John has moved on to the negotiation part of the conversation.

“Why?”

“Why are you doing this?” John asks again

“It’s obvious,” Sherlock says slowly. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s not obvious to me.”

“Dear God,” Sherlock’s deep voice rolls, “What is it like in your funny like brains? It must be so boring.”

John blinks at this.

“Who’s brains?” He asks, aware that more than one mind had been insulted.

“Yours,” Sherlock responds, “Theirs,” He nods down at the street below him, John thinks this may be the first time he’s added a physical gesture to support something he’s said, scare tactics aside. “All of you going about your lives, without seeing.”

“Seeing what?” John asks.

“Everything.”

John pauses to contemplate this.

“You see everything?” John asks.

“Yes,”

“And what do you see?”

“People are idiots.” Sherlock replies succinctly.

“I’d probably agree with you there.” John says.

Something in this seems to get through to him. Sherlock turns his whole body slowly on the ledge; John can’t help but be fixated on slim dark shoes shifting so close to the void.

Looking up finally John finds himself pinned beneath a pale stare.

“Who are you?” Sherlock demands.

“John,” John says, “John Watson.”

“John,” Sherlock repeats, as if testing it out, staring down at John with eyes so sharp and full of power that John partly wishes he would turn around again.

“I’m a fake.” Sherlock says then.

“Sherlock…” John replies automatically.

“The newspapers were right all along.” The man continues, nonsensically. “I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you...”

Sherlock cuts off abruptly.

“What?” John asks

Sherlock stares back at him, silent.

John tries again: “What should I tell them?”

“Tell them?” The space between Sherlock’s eyes creases.

“You just said I should tell… some people… something.”

“No I didn’t.” Sherlock maintains. John feels like he’s losing his mind.

“Who’s Mrs Hudson?” John asks instead

“I have no idea,”

“But you just said I should tell her something…?”

“Why would I say that?”

“I have no idea,” John mimics.

If John thought there had been an awkward pause before, it has nothing against this one.

“It’s cold out here.” John says, deciding that when in doubt, comment on the weather.

“You aren’t wearing a coat.”

“No.”

“You didn’t think you’d be out here for long.” Sherlock deduces.

“I wasn’t sure what I was thinking.” John replies honestly.

“You saw two possible outcomes of your coming up here: either it was all a lie and there was really no one here at all, or you’d talk me out of it with little bother.”

“Three.” John corrects. “You’d step off the edge the moment you saw me.”

John has decided that skirting the issue is pointless.

“That didn’t happen.” Sherlock says.

“None of those things happened.” John replies.

“No,” Sherlock agrees. Before adding, “There’s a fourth possibility.”

“There is?”

“You didn’t come up here at all.”

“But.” John does a vague double take on Sherlock’s words. “But I did.”

“Did you?”

“Of course I did.” John says, confused, “I’m here.”

“But you don’t know why you’re here,” Sherlock announces.

“I do.” John insists “I told you why. I came to try and talk some sense into you.”

“Why you?”  Sherlock asks from the ledge. “Why you alone?”

“I don’t know.” John answers.

“Because you are the only one who cares?”

“Well…”

“Because the police won’t come too close?” Sherlock suggests instead.

“Yes, you’ve not told me why…” John starts, Sherlock ignores him.

“Those aren’t the reasons.”

“Why aren’t?” John asks, a little lost.

“No,” A weighted pause. “It’s because that is the way you wanted it.”

“I…” John falters, “I did?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t have that kind of power.” John asserts.

“You do.”

“I can’t stop the police.”

“You did.”

“Why would I do that?” John asks. He can’t help but feel the conversation is falling down a tangent.

“This is your making.” Sherlock says confidently, ignoring the question. He’s still standing at the edge, but somehow the threat of that plunge is being forgotten.

“What?”

“This rooftop is your doing.”

“It’s…?” John starts, eyes darting back and forth as he processes these words. “I don’t understand. Are you saying…?” He pauses, “Do you mean I made you come up here?”

“I don’t know, did you?”

“I didn’t make you come up here.” John says firmly.

“You think you did.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Somewhere, subconsciously. You do.”

John falters.

“Why do you say that?” He asks.

“Because you did.” Sherlock responds.

“What?”

“And because if you didn’t blame yourself for this then we wouldn’t both be here.” Sherlock continues, “You think you could have stopped me. But you didn’t. You don’t remember coming up here because you never did.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t?”

“No!” John’s voice is shaking, “Of course I came up here. I’m here!”

“Describe it to me.” Sherlock demands.

John looks at him.

“Why?” John asks.

“Just,” Sherlock’s voice softens marginally, “Just describe it to me. What happened before this conversation?”

John stares. At a man, standing on a ledge, asking John to talk about his day.

“I’d just finished my shift.” John says to him slowly, placating. “The nurse.” He stops again. “The nurse told me there was a jumper on the roof.”

“Me,” Sherlock says deeply.

“Yes.” John nods, once, remembering, “I could see the police lights. She had pink hair.”

“The nurse?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“I…” John starts. Finds he can’t answer. “I don’t know.”

“You know her?”

“Yes,”

“You’ve seen her before?”

“Yes,” John answers honestly. “We work together all the time.”

“But you don’t know her name?”

“I must have forgotten it.”

“Forgotten it? Or never knew it?”

“I don’t know…” John trails off.

Sherlock speaks before he can ponder this too hard: “What happened then?”

“I came up here.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” John starts, his voice filled with wonderment, “I walked.” He offers, a suggestion rather than a fact.

“You didn’t get the lift?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t… know.”

“How many flights of stairs?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s a door to the roof, how did you open it?” This time it’s a demand.

“I don’t know!” In the face of interrogation John’s voice has grown louder, more to cover his fear than to convey his anger.

They stop.

John’s head is spinning.

“I didn’t make you come up here.” John says finally.

“No.” Sherlock agrees. “But neither did you come up here.”

John can’t respond.

“Not then, or now.” Sherlock continues.

Another stop, this time a long one. They contemplate each other across the blank concrete space, the two paces between them yawning as large and dangerous as the void at Sherlock’s back.

“There was nothing you could do.” Sherlock says eventually.

“What?” John asks, the tone of Sherlock’s words have an air of finality to them that has upped the rate of John’s heart suddenly.

“This,” Sherlock starts, “It’s my note.”

John’s stomach drops five floors to the pavement below.

“It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” Out of nowhere Sherlock has started to cry. His strong face caving in.

“Leave a note when?” John’s words are in equal parts bewilderment and heartbreak.

“Goodbye, John”

“No.” John springs forward, “Don’t!” The word feels like it’s been wrung from his gut.

But he can’t move forward quickly enough, the air around him thick and viscous. He can only watch in horror as the familiar figure of a stranger spreads his arms wide.

And tips backwards.

  


	12. Chapter 12

They meet in a hospital.

John wakes as if falling into consciousness from a great height.

The room is stark, unfamiliar, a sterile coat of whitewash and grey green curtains, pale sunlight drifting in through a distant strange window.

It’s a hospital room, John realises slowly from his position propped up on the bed, a large one and private. Even with his mind muddled by sleep and memories he has to wonder what the special circumstances are that mean he’s here.

He turns his head to study more of it, finding, to his surprise, that he isn’t alone. A stranger lolls in a plastic chair at the edge of the room, seemingly asleep, his dark curls falling limply across a drawn face and long limbs positioned at odd angles as if his strings have been cut. The pose gives the impression that he had been overwhelmed by sleep without warning, simply tipping into it at an impossible angle.

The man sighs suddenly, stirring.

“John?” He asks slowly as pale eyes slide open, catching John’s in a disbelieving stare.

John stares back at him.

“Are you there?” The man asks, rather confusingly. He’s righting himself in the chair now, sitting forward slowly. John eyes the space between bed and chair warily, 

“Yes,” John says, voice a croak of underuse.

“Oh,” There’s a rush of relief in the man’s voice, he sits forward, half rising from his chair. “I…” He starts.

“Who are you?” John cuts him off curtly, ignoring his own hoarse voice.

The stranger freezes mid-movement.

“John?” The man says to him again, confused.

“You know my name.” John says slowly, testing each word.

“Yes,” A tentative reply on the stranger’s part.

“You know me?” John asks.

“Yes.” The stranger says again, sitting back down whilst still leaning forward in the chair as far as it will allow.

“Who are you?” John repeats the question again,

“Sherlock.” The man answers hopefully, perhaps he believes this will be enough explanation.

The name does cause a dim light to go on in the back of John’s mind.

“Where am I?” John plucks from a dozen possible questions.

“Hospital.”

“Yes.” John can see that.

“The Royal Free.”

“In Hampstead?” John asks, another low light joins the first.

“Yes.”

“What am I doing here?”

“You don’t remember?” Sherlock asks,

“No.”

A pause.

“What do you remember?” Sherlock asks another question without answering John’s.

John thinks for a moment.

“I don’t know.” He answers honestly, after a while. “Am I supposed to remember you?”

Sherlock’s face crumples a little.

“Yes.” He says very slowly.

“I don’t.”

“No.”

“We’re…?” John starts to ask, but isn’t sure how he wants to finish the question.

“Friends.” Sherlock supplies.

“Oh.”

Was that what John was going to say? He can’t remember.

“Well,” Sherlock says, eyes shifting out of John’s gaze. “We were.”

“Were?” John queries.

“Yes.” Sherlock pauses “I had to… go away.”

“Go away?”

“Yes,”

“For how long?”

“Three years.” Sherlock says, deadpan.

“Three years?” John repeats.

“Yes.”

“We were friends three years ago?” John asks, more confused now than he was when he awoke.

Sherlock visibly winces “Yes.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I’ve been working to come back.” Sherlock looks away, toward the window.

“What do you mean?” John isn’t following.

“It was difficult.”

“Surely you could just pick up the phone?” John asks bewildered.

Sherlock stares at him, his face open but as unreadable as a blank page of a book. Then his eyes soften, something beginning to tug at the side of his mouth, something like affection.

“You misunderstand.” Sherlock says,

“You said we were friends.” John summaries, “Three years ago. We lost touch…”

“That’s not exactly what happened.”

“Oh?”

“Things were more,” Sherlock pauses, searching for the right word. “Complicated.”

“Oh.” John says again. “Something happened?”

They’re looking at each other now, eyes locked across a room. The intensity of Sherlock’s gaze disarming.

“Yes.” Sherlock agrees.

“We had a fight?” John offers the most logical explanation he can think of.

“In a way.”

“What did we fight about?”

“Me.” Sherlock replies quickly.

“Were you being an ass?”

Sherlock stops on the brink of replying. A smile. He releases the breath he’d taken to speak.

“You could put it that way.” He says with amusement.

“I don’t remember.” John replies, as if to remind him.

“No”.

“So we fought about something you did?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“I saved your life.” Sherlock replies, heavy again.

“You did?” John asks in surprise.

“Yes.”

“And that made us fight?”

“In a way.” Sherlock agrees “You called me a machine.”

John processes this.

“Are you?” He asks.

“A machine?” Sherlock asks back.

“Yes.”

“Sometimes.” Sherlock admits. “Sometimes I have to be. Sometimes it’s necessary.”

“To save my life?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause.

“Well,” John doesn’t like the silence. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Thank you.” John repeats. “I’m not really sure what you’re talking about, or who you are, or what I’m doing here. But, thank you.”

“You don’t remember anything?” There’s pain in Sherlock’s question.

“No,” John replies bluntly. “But it might… come back,” He feels the need to reassure this stranger. “Memory loss after trauma is often temporary.”

“You know that?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes,” John pauses, “I’m a doctor.”

John drops his eyes from the man in order to look inward at his memories instead.

“You know that?” Sherlock asks again, a disconnected voice.

“Yes.” John says, confidently.

“What else do you know?”

“The army.” John starts.

“Yes.”

“I was shot.”

“Yes,”

“In the shoulder,” John remembers, “But my leg.”

“Yes.” There’s hope in Sherlock’s word.

“It was psychosomatic.” Another pause. “We met on a train.” John says, looking up at him.

There’s a long silence before Sherlock responds.

“No.” The word takes a long time to say.

There’s a noise at the other side of the room and John turns from Sherlock in time to watch a woman push in through the door. She’s wearing a nurse’s uniform. She has pink hair.

She stops.

“You’re awake?” She asks John in astonishment.

“Yes.” He tells her, stating the obvious.

“You didn’t…” Her eyes flash up to Sherlock across the room; he’s risen from his chair as she entered.

“I didn’t call, no.” He offers her.

“We asked you to…”

“We were talking.” Sherlock cuts her off.

“Is he…?” She starts to Sherlock ineloquently then seems to realise John can hear her, turning back to him instead “Are you…?”

Nevertheless Sherlock answers for him: “He can’t remember.”

“I remember you.” John says to the woman in response to this.

“I’m sorry?” She asks him.

“I remember you.” He repeats. “Your hair.”

“You…” So far nothing in this conversation seems to have made any sense to her, “You can’t.”

“I can’t?”

“No.” She says. “We’ve never met.”

“We haven’t?” John, so confident before, gets lost.

“Well.” She starts, “I’ve been here. But you’ve been…” She doesn’t seem to want to say the word ‘unconscious’.

“Oh.”

Disappointed, John looks away from her. Back at the faded grey blue of the hospital blanket draped over his legs.

“I should get the doctor.” The nurse remembers herself. John doesn’t look up as she leaves.

“You remember her?” Sherlock asks from the side of the room opposite the door.

John looks at him.

“Yes.” He responds tentatively, searching his memories, trying to remember where from.

“But not me?” There’s a note of petulance in his tone.

“No.”

It seems like the only thing he can say.

“I’m sorry.” John adds after a long pause.

They wait.

The doctor arrives within minutes. A young woman. Sensible clothes and a smart shirt rolled above the elbow, a stethoscope around her neck. She enters the room with a bright smile and an air of confidence, crossing immediately over to John and standing closer than anyone has done up until now.

“Dr Watson,” She addresses him, still smiling. She has a pleasant, pretty kind of smile that sits nicely with her delicate face and startlingly green eyes.

“You’re with the police.” John says to her before she has chance to say anything else.

Her smile fades.

“No,” She says slowly.

“Yes.” He insists, “I’ve seen you before.”

“No,” She says again.

John looks between them both. Memories waking, impossible ones.

“I don’t understand,” He tells them.

“John,” Sherlock says soothingly.

“What’s happening?” John asks,

“I…”

“What’s happening?” John asks again, panic threatening, he looks to Sherlock: “You tell me I should know you, but I don’t.”

“Dr Watson,” The doctor cuts in.

John turns to her.

“I know you.” He tells her. “You were there, in my living room. When Mary…” He says.

“Who’s Mary?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t know!” He tells him, turning back. Scared. “I met you in a café.” He continues, “Before my first tour.”

“No,” There’s fear creeping into Sherlock’s calm tone too, not obviously, but John can tell. He knows that voice almost as well as his own.

Does he?

He doesn’t.

They’ve never met before.

“Who are you!?” John asks him, desperation seeping into his words, “What are you doing here?”

“John, I…” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock has been with you since you came in Dr Watson,” The doctor offers, as if you reassure. It doesn’t work,

“You have?” John asks Sherlock.

“Yes.”

“But you said we were friends three years ago. Why would you do that?”

“I…” Sherlock doesn’t get chance to respond.

“I met you.” John tells him, confused. “I met you in a pub.”

“No, John.” There really is fear in that face now. Sherlock has stepped forward.

“Please,” John says to him, aware his face is wet. He might be crying. “Please, I don’t understand.”

He’s being crushed by the weight of what he knows and what he doesn’t.

He’s struggling to breathe.

“Calm down,” The doctor instructs, her hand on John’s arm. “Dr Watson, you need to calm down.”

He ignores her.

“I can’t remember,” John’s eyes are only on Sherlock. “You were there. I met you. You were in the park. With Mrs Hudson. You offered me a seat on the tube.”

“John,”

“You told me to open my eyes.” John is talking at him. “You told me to come back. I can’t remember you but I remember that. I don’t know you. You were there. You were at Angelo’s. My date. She introduced us…” John’s eyes widen. He rounds back at the doctor. “That was you. It was you.” He’s looking desperately between them now.

“John,” Sherlock says again. He’s closer, John grabs at him.

“You were there.” He almost yells back at him, as if to explain. “A patient. It was here. I woke up, you asked me if I could hear you. Who are you!? What’s happening!?” John seems to have crested the peak of his panic now.

Casting about wildly in his mind.

 “Why can’t I remember you?! You were there…” But now John’s thoughts are fading, words slowing. “I don’t remember you...” He says with effort. “…you fell.”

Blurred silence falls.

“I’m sorry.” He hears the doctor say over his head, not to him.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice, “You need to rest.” He’s laid his hand over John’s on the bed. His cool touch sears into John’s skin.

John can’t find his voice any more.

“The doctor has given you something so you can rest.” Sherlock tells him. “I’m sorry.”

John blacks out wondering what exactly Sherlock is sorry for.    


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because even canon has an alternate meeting…
> 
> Feel free to skip this one if you like.

They meet in a computer lab.

John feels faintly like he’s going down the rabbit hole as he follows Mike Stamford into a building that he used to know so well and has since changed so much.

The room they are about to enter used to be a classroom. He can still remember the way the desks were set out around the blackboard and recall the type of diagrams that were likely to have been drawn upon it: anatomy chalked in a shaky hand. Instead of all this however, when Mike leads him through the door it’s to be faced with banks of blank computers, set out in rows. It’s empty, apart from a single dark figure.

John realises that Mike is looking at him for a reaction.

“Well, a bit different from my day,” John says,

“You’ve no idea!” Mike replies in a Geordie accent, John’s words seem to have pleased him.

“Mike,” The figure in the room address’s John’s friend without looking up from whatever it is he is doing on the computer, “Can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine.”

Mike sighs “And what’s wrong with the landline?”

“Rather text,” The stranger says blankly.

Still studying their surroundings John is vaguely aware that Mike is searching through his pockets, he produces only a notebook: “Sorry,” He says, “Other coat.”

“Oh, here.” John leaps to his aide, “Use mine.”

The stranger turns to look at him properly for the first time, John has to limp forward to him to hand it over.

“Oh,” The stranger addresses him with an air of curiosity, “Thank you”

“It’s an old mate of mine,” Mike says in introduction from behind John, “John Watson.”

The stranger offers them nothing but vague disinterest, sitting himself down again with his back turned toward them.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” He asks, out of the blue.

“Afghanistan.” John offers with a bewildered smile, “Sorry, how did you know?”

Before the stranger can reply a petite woman enters the room.

“Ah, coffee,” The stranger addresses the beverage rather than the bearer, reaching out one hand behind him to return John‘s phone, “Thank you, Molly. What happened to the lipstick?”

The woman looks abashed for a second. “It wasn’t working for me.” She says meekly.

“Really?” The man replies, John can only watch, “I thought it was a big improvement. Mouth’s too small now.”

“Okay,” She responds as the man who has so casually insulted her takes a sip from the drink she had brought him. She leaves quietly. John watches her go.

“How do you feel about the violin?” The deep voice of the man John is beginning to suspect he has been brought here to meet breaks back into John’s thoughts.

“I’m sorry, what?” John asks as he turns back, finding the man is looking at the computer rather than at him.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking.” He continues to type as he talks, “Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

John turns back to Mike.

“Oh, you told him about me?” John asks him.

“Not a word,” Mike’s response.

“Then, who said anything about flatmates?” John asks the stranger instead.

“I did,” The man has risen from his chair now and is pulling on a long dark coat. “I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is after lunch with an old friend clearly home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John can’t help but ask.

The stranger ignores the question, leaning to shut down the computer and replying calmly:

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we could afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow: seven o’clock.” He turns toward the door. “Sorry, I’ve got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

John finds himself throwing a disbelieving glance at Mike, before turning to address the back of the retreating figure.

“Is that it?” John asks, the figure stops.

“Is that what?”

“We’ve just met and we’re going to go look at a flat?”

“Problem?” The man asks.

“We don’t know a thing about each other.” John starts, throwing another glance to Mike as he does, “I don’t know your name. I don’t even know where we’re meeting.”

The stranger lowers his gaze from John’s for a moment before twitching the side of his mouth in a half smirk. He raises his eyes again as he speaks:

“I know you’re an Army doctor and that you’ve recently been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother with a bit of money who’s worried about you  but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife.” John says nothing as the stranger continues, “And I know your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

Having finished speaking the man steps toward to door to leave, before turning back, his shoulder against a corner in the wall so his face peers around it:

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” He offers finally, his gaze level, “And the address is two two one B Baker Street.” He winks. “Afternoon,”

And then he’s gone.


	14. Chapter 14

They meet at home.

“Are you here?” John calls, pushing the door of 221B closed behind him with his foot, juggling his keys in one hand and stack of paperwork in the other.

A quiet grunt from the kitchen serves as greeting.

“Are you sulking?” John asks, aware that the grunt can hear him. He busies himself automatically as he moves across the room: paperwork on the coffee table, keys on the shelf by the door, union jack pillow rehomed from floor to chair, haphazard pile of books retrieved from the carpet, three empty tea mugs rescued from mysteriously common hiding places. As he carries them through to the kitchen he finds Sherlock sitting at the table, peering into his microscope.

“You are sulking.” John tells him, vaguely amused.

Sherlock grunts again.

John ignores it and moves over the sink, running water into the empty mugs to rinse them.

“The radio silence gave you away.” John continues conversationally. “Amazing what I can get done at the surgery without my phone going off every five minutes.” He shuts off the water, “No messages since lunchtime, I wondered if you might have a case.”

Sherlock says nothing. John knows better than to expect a response from stating the obvious.

“What are you working on?” John asks directly instead, moving over and pressing his hand against the back of Sherlock’s neck gently. Sherlock tenses, but doesn’t respond.

John sighs, the last of his arsenal exhausted.

“Well, when you decide you want to talk to me I’ll be out there.” John moves away, unconcerned. “Got some pages from my publisher to go over,” He continues, “Apparently they’re not ‘emotive’ enough. Her word. Can you believe that? Sometimes I think you’re rubbing off on me…”

“There’s beer in the fridge.” Sherlock cuts in through the chatter.

John stops.

“I’m sorry?” John asks, turning to look at him.

“Beer, in the fridge.” Sherlock repeats, not looking up.

“You bought beer?”

“You bought beer, there are a few left.”

“And you’re telling me that because?”

“You often have a beer when you’re editing.” Sherlock’s words are calm; he’s still peering through the microscope.

John studies him for a moment, wondering when the simple idea of someone noticing your habits had become so touching.

“Thanks,” John says, smiling and moving forward to the fridge, “I think I will.” He retrieves a bottle and opens it, before turning back toward the sitting room. “Probably what I need if they want me to be more ‘ _emotional’_.”

Minutes later and he’s sitting back in his chair, taking his first pull on his beer as he looks over the discarded papers.

“Your receptionist is an idiot.”

A voice from the kitchen.

John pauses.

“Is that what this is?” John calls back, referring to the sulk.

The kitchen is silent in response.

John suppresses a smile, goes back to his paperwork.

A few minutes pass before a figure appears around the doorway.

“She threw me out.” Sherlock tells him.

“That she did.” John is still looking pointedly at the sheet of paper in front of him without reading a word. He’s using it to hide his smile.

“She wouldn’t let me see you.”

“They don’t really encourage personal visits,” John doesn’t qualify that they don’t encourage personal visits from Sherlock, not since the time he took it upon himself to diagnose the waiting room while John was busy with a patient.

“But it was important.”

“I think you and she have differing definitions of important,” John replies, dropping the papers and looking up at Sherlock across the room. He still stands on the threshold, leaning his long frame against the doorway; dark suit and John’s favourite shirt.

“What did you want anyway?” John asks,

“I wanted you.”

“What for?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

“I was at work.” John says, stating the obvious again.

“I know,”

“Well it can’t have been all that important,” John continues, “Else you would have text.”

Sherlock’s gaze has shifted.

“But you are right about the receptionist.” John continues, taking a drink from his beer and sitting back. “She is a bit of an idiot. She didn’t even mention you’d been there, Mrs Stevens had to tell me instead.”

“Mrs Stevens?” Sherlock asks, looking at him again.

“Patient.” John smiles “You made quite an impression on her. I think she described you as my ‘’andsome fella’” John mimics her accent,

Sherlock’s mouth quirks in a smile.

“So,” John starts, glad he’s managed to raise that smile. “How exactly did my idiot receptionist manage to throw you out? Tougher souls than her have tried and failed.”

“She threatened your job,” Sherlock replies succinctly.

“She doesn’t have the power to fire me.”

“Dr Osborne does.”

John looks at him quizzically, then something occurs to him.

“They’re not?” He asks,

“They are.” Sherlock replies.

Another pause.

“Well, good for Dr Osborne I guess.” John has a new respect for the man. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“It’s unacceptable that such a person has that kind of power over you.” Sherlock says in response.

“You’re the only person allowed to have that kind of power over me?” John asks calmly,

“No,”

John just regards him with a smile.

“I understand that you wish to continue with this doctor business…” Sherlock continues, John’s smile dies.

“It’s not doctor ‘business’.” He cuts in, Sherlock may be succeeding in tugging at his good mood. “We’ve been through this before. I am a doctor.”

“Yes.”

“I will continue to be a doctor.”

“Yes.”

“Even while I am, everything I am with you.”

“But it’s unacceptable that you cannot do that on your own terms.” Sherlock says. He’s still standing in the doorway, too far away.

“You know why I can’t.” John responds.

“This way is easier?” Sherlock provides, parroting words that have been spoken in similar conversations previously.

“Yes, this way is easier. If I were my own boss it would mean more responsibility, more time. This way I can just, call in sick or something when you need me on a case.”

“We’ve been through this before.” Sherlock repeats John’s earlier statement.

“Then why go through it again?”

“Because it’s still unacceptable. They don’t realise your value.”

“And you do?” John asks,

“Of course.”

To a casual observer this might not seem like a particularly poignant statement. To John, who can read this man so well, who has read this man for over thirty years, it may as well be a declaration of unending adoration.

“Why are you all the way over there?” John says slowly in response, putting his beer down on the table in front of him so he can hold out his hand.

Sherlock regards him levelly for a few moments, eyes narrowed, before he slowly steps forward and, ignoring the hand John has offered him, sits down in front of him on the coffee table. On top of the papers. John can’t help but notice how close his left elbow comes from brushing against the beer bottle beside him.

John sighs, watching the man in front of him with newly remembered affection and using his lifted hand to touch that familiar face. The years have marked it: lines across his expressive forehead and around those clear blue eyes, his dark hair worn shorter now to mask the creep of his hairline, the black curls shot with grey.

The expression is still the same however, nothing will change that, a kind of knowledge about the eyes, as if he’s forever deducing. John recognises it as the same one he’d worn the day they’d met, all those years ago in St Bart’s and then again, in this room, when he’d presented the surroundings to John with pride. It had even made an appearance in the seconds before their first kiss, right there, on that sofa. John knows it better than he knows the expression he sees every morning in the mirror.

“Why are we going through all this again?” John asks him finally, emerging from his study of the memories he finds etched into familiar features.

“I’m tired.” Sherlock says.

And John is reminded that this man can always surprise him.

“You are?” John asks.

“Yes.” Sherlock says with a sigh. He tips his face forward slowly to John, resting their foreheads together, John has to drop his hand from his cheek, “I’m tired of people not understanding your worth.” He starts slowly, his breath against John’s face. “I’m tired of idiot receptionists. I’m tired of Doctor Osborne,”

“Not more than I am,” John chuckles; he’s closed his eyes, savouring Sherlock’s deep voice.

“And I’m tired of the yarders.” Sherlock continues, heavily, “I’m tired of being the freak.”

“They’ve not called you that in years.”

“But that is still how they see me.”

“Has something happened?” John asks,

“No.”

“Well then where is this coming from?”

“I’ve been contemplating it a while.”

“Contemplating what?” John draws back.

“That this is a young man’s game John,” Sherlock’s eyes are full of an unidentifiable emotion, “I’m getting tired of playing it.”

They stop, studying each other. Sherlock’s words hang in the air between them.

“What exactly are you saying?” John asks, sensing that this isn’t going to be the same as all the other times they’ve started this conversation.

“I think it’s time I retired.” Sherlock says, confirming John’s suspicion.

“That’s a big thing to say,” John says with wonder.

“Yes.”

“I mean,” John starts, pauses, starts again: “What does that even mean?”

“It means stopping.” Sherlock says calmly. “Walking away. Being less tired.”

“But…” John starts.

“Somewhere quieter.”

“Leaving London?”

“Somewhere where you can be your own boss, if you wish. Somewhere where that won’t mean too much work.”

“Where?” John rather means it as a rhetorical question.

“Sussex.”

John blinks.

“I didn’t expect you to be so specific.” John says.

“You didn’t?”

“I’m not sure why I didn’t,” John’s smile has reappeared for a moment.

Then he stops again, contemplating what they’re saying.

“But the work?” John asks. The biggest question he can think of.

“The work is done.” Sherlock says intensely.

“That wasn’t what you said last week.”

“Ignore what I said.”

“Can I have that in writing?” John cuts in lightly.

Sherlock huffs out a laugh.

“If you like.”

John smiles, studies the face of the man before him.

“You’ve really thought this through,” John says in admiration, he can’t decide whether or not it is a question.

“Yes.” Sherlock part answers, part confirms, “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Five years.”

Stunned, John can’t reply.

“Perhaps longer,” Sherlock qualifies, taking his time over the words, “Twenty years, thirty. It has always been something I considered for our future.” Sherlock’s eyes have become grave; he sits forward a little to shorten the space between them. “Before you I had thought that all I could ever live for was the work. What it made me and what I became when I was doing it. You changed that. You taught me what it was to be more than that.”

This time it is Sherlock that lifts his hand to John’s face. John wonders whether he can remember a time when Sherlock has been this expressive to him; he’s stilled in the face of it, unable and unwilling to offer anything in response.

“I love you.” Sherlock says slowly. “Back then that is more than I ever would have thought possible.” Sherlock’s thumb brushes John’s cheek, “And the work is done.” He continues, “I have more than that to live for now.”

If John didn’t know better he would wonder whether the sore feeling in the back of his throat was the threat of tears. The only thing John can think of to do against it is to lean forward and touch their lips together.

“You’re an idiot.” John says as he pulls away.

Sherlock’s eyes go wide.

“How long have you been working up to that?” John asks.

Sherlock clears his throat a little, drops his eyes: “Some time.”

“Were you worried I wasn’t going to agree with you?” John asks, scanning Sherlock’s face, “About retiring?”

“No…” Sherlock says in a way that makes it sound he means the opposite.

“You got yourself all worked up and thought the only way you could convince me would be some big emotional speech…”

“Did it work?”

“It didn’t need to, you idiot.” John laughs and bridges the gap between them again. The practised meeting of lips. After all this time Sherlock still tastes like something beautiful.

“I’m in.” John says, breaking apart only far enough to form the words, his lips brushing Sherlock’s as he says them. “I always have been. I always will be. Call me and I will follow.”

“Can I have that in writing?” Sherlock smirks, pulling back fractionally.

“No.” John laughs, looking up at him. “I love you, you great genius. I said it first. I’ll say it last.”

“You will not let me forget that, will you?”

“Never.”

This time there is a grin on John’s face as he closes the gap between them, mouths fitting together with tenderness and familiarity. That remembered passion bubbling just under the surface.

“So you do agree?” Sherlock asks as he pulls away, uncharacteristic uncertainty flashing across his pale eyes.

“Of course I do.” John replies with a smile.

“You seemed surprised when I brought it up.”

“I was surprised you were able to come to that conclusion on your own.”

“I’m often coming to conclusions on my own.”

“Emotional ones?” John asks

“I take your point.” Sherlock nods.

“If I’d thought the work wasn’t keeping you here I probably would have suggested it myself.”

“You would?”

“Yes. And not just to get away from Dr Osborne.”

“That reason would be sufficient in isolation.” Sherlock agrees, “The man is insufferable.”

“Almost as insufferable as the woman he’s sleeping with.”

“Who has the most peculiar taste in hair colour.”

“Yes,” John says quickly, before changing the subject back: “So when… do we…?”

“As soon as we can make the arrangements.” Sherlock replies assuredly.

“You mean you haven’t already made them?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock replies, “I needed to ensure that you were in agreement.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?” John asks with a smile.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When I asked you to marry me.”

“Oh,” John smiles, “Yes, good point.”

“I am full of them.”

“You’re often full of something…” John says playfully and Sherlock can only smirk.

John stops, studying the man in front of him, a smile on his lips. He’s imagining the times to come, the life that stretches out ahead of them: of stillness and Sussex and summer afternoons. Days at the side of this incredible, confusing, thrilling figure of a man, the wonders that have become his life these last thirty years.

He sighs as the memories threaten to overwhelm him, closing his eyes to savour them.

“This isn’t real is it?” John asks finally, painfully.

There is no response.

“What you’re saying?” John clarifies, that dreadful knowledge pooling acidly in the bottom of his stomach. “It’s not happening.” This time it’s not a question.

He opens his eyes, looking back at the figure sitting silently before him. Sherlock is staring straight ahead, focusing on something over John’s shoulder, pale eyes open but unseeing.

“I want this.” John tells him, his voice breaking slightly as he continues: “I want this and it’s not happening.”

Silence again.

“Say something Sherlock.” John asks, this time with a note of desperation.

“John.” Sherlock says his name.

John swallows, fear rising as the strangeness of Sherlock’s voice only confirms what he already knows.

“Can you hear me?” Sherlock continues, too loud, the words are coming from somewhere else in the room.

John stands. Tripping a few paces away, eyes fixed on the figure sitting on the familiar coffee table, surrounded by the mundane. Scaring him.

“John,” Sherlock says again, but doesn’t. This time his mouth doesn’t move.

“What’s happening?” John asks him. His voice has risen now, sharp with fear.

“You need to calm down.” A voice, Sherlock’s voice. Not this Sherlock.

“This isn’t really happening, you’re not really here. I’m not really here.”

“John,” Sherlock doesn’t say his name again.

“Why can’t this be real?” John asks him desperately. “I don’t understand! You’re here, and this has happened. I remember it. You came to the surgery, they threw you out, Mrs Stevens told me you were there. We’re moving to Sussex. How can I know that and still know that this isn’t real?”

“John,”

“We sit here and talk and make jokes and plan but it’s not real. It keeps happening, over and over and I see it. Please. Please explain this to me, for the love of God, explain it to me, Sherlock.” John is pleading now, “This isn’t happening and I want it to. I love you. Why aren’t you there?!”

“John,” The figure on the table suddenly turns to look at him, voice softer, the motion of his lips matching the word.

“Sherlock?” John asks him, surprised.

“John, what’s wrong?” From two paces away John watches the light come back on in Sherlock’s eyes, concern growing in their deep blue pools as they watch the obvious fear in John’s face.

John crumples in the face of it.

He steps forward, and with effort drops to his knees in front of the man he loves, burying his head in his lap.

Long fingers find their way to the back of John’s neck, carding through the short hair there.

And John forgets. He forgets what he knows, and holds on.


	15. Chapter 15

They meet in a GP Surgery.

“Dr Watson, your 6pm is here.” The bored voice of the receptionist says through the speakerphone on John’s desk. John looks up from the paperwork he’s been working on to stare back at the device, unsure of how it works in order for him to reply.

He presses a button at random: “Thank you,” He says out loud, hoping it will transmit.

The response comes in the form of a knock on the exam room door.

“Come in,” John calls, relieved.

The door swings open before him, revealing a tall man with a thick dark curls and sharp cheekbones. The figure strolls into the room casually, his long coat swinging around skinny legs.

“Good afternoon Mr…?” John starts, shuffling his work aside and looking down at the appointment schedule on his desk to find a name. Then he looks again, there’s nothing written on his 6pm.

“Moran,” The man offers.

A pause.

“Excuse me?” John asks.

“My name.”

“Do you have an appointment?” John again. It’s late in the day and he’d thought he was finished.

“Yes,” The man confirms.

“Oh.” John concedes, mentally cursing the technology he’s yet to understand, “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve come to talk to you about Sherlock Holmes.”

His words are confident, spoken with weight and an air of the dramatic. They cause John’s world to pause for a second, tilting gently in his mind at a familiar name spoken by familiar lips. Something tugs at his subconscious. This is wrong.

He blinks at the man in front of him: slim and angular, black hair and a pale face. Another blink and he can see the ghost of blonde hair, of wide shoulders and a military stance. Blink again and it’s a tall figure in a dark coat and blue scarf.

“I’m sorry,” John continues, as if reading from a script: “You’re aware that this is a doctor’s surgery?”

“I am.” The man’s response is cool; familiar and alien at the same time.

“You don’t have a… medical concern you want to talk about?” John asks.

“No.”

“You want to talk about Sherlock?” John confirms instead, the name still catches a little in his throat.

“Yes.”

“I think it’s time you left.” John is on his feet now.

“No.” The man says firmly, pale eyes narrowed.

“This is a doctor’s surgery, not a place for an interview.” John doesn’t back down, this man may be six inches taller but John has the authority here.

“I don’t want an interview.”

“Isn’t it enough that you hound me at home? You have to find me at work as well?” John’s anger is rising.

Three years. Three years it had taken for the yarders to clear Sherlock’s name, and for the country to remember it. Now it was all John can do to manage to walk a street without seeing it. The media are on to him day and night for “his side of the story”, he’s had to unplug his phone.

“I’m not a journalist.” The cold voice of the stranger knocks John off course a little.

“You’re not?” He asks.

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

“My name,” The man replies, his deep voice imbibing the words with an authority that matches the confidence of his posture: “Is Sebastian Moran.” It’s spoken like a threat.

“Should that mean something to me?” John asks.

“It would have meant something to him.”

“To Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“What do you mean?” John’s words are slow. He’s running through options in his mind and beginning to put together the pieces. Fear blooms faintly in the pit of his stomach, laced with something else; that bitter grip of adrenaline. He wets his lips.

“You haven’t heard my name?” The man asks.

“Not that I can recall...” John’s eyes flash from stranger to doorway, calculating.

“He never spoke of me?”

“No.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

And John can see it now, that name, written in Sherlock’s hand. Part of a web, tacked up on the wall of 221b. A web with one person at the centre. A person they had found dead on a rooftop in the city, five floors above the lifeless form of John’s best friend.

John stares back at the stranger, watching him. His head swims. Why can’t he remember what Sherlock looked like?

“Tell me,” The man’s full lips ask, John is fixated on them, lost somewhere in a deep growl of baritone. “Where is Sherlock?”

Nothing seems to be making any sense any more.

“Sherlock is dead.” Is John’s blunt reply.

There’s a pause.

“That’s what you’ve told the papers.” The man says in response, “But we both know that’s not the truth.”

“Of course it’s the truth. I saw it happen.”

“Did you?”

Abruptly the phone on his desk starts to ring. They both turn to stare at it.

“Ignore it.” The man orders.

But John is already moving forward toward it, acting like nothing is wrong, acting like he is in control. “It’ll be my receptionist.” He says, unsure whether he believes this or not. “She’d only call if it’s important.”

His hand moves out to the phone and, uncertain, he has to look down to press the right button to answer.

“John.” A voice says as John brings the receiver to his ear. The single word has the power to make John’s head spin; it’s a familiar baritone. Familiar so many years ago now. It’s desperate: “Listen to me…”

But John doesn’t have any chance to process anything further; his attention is brought suddenly back into the room by a heart-stoppingly familiar metallic click above him. John raises his eyes again slowly, he’d only dropped them for a second but Moran has used this momentary lapse of concentration to draw the gun that now ghosts close to John’s temple.

“Put the phone down.” The man says to John slowly.

John swallows. Aware the voice at the other end of the line is still talking but unable to hear a word.

He does as he’s told.

“Now.” Moran continues, “Tell me the truth.”

“Or?” John asks, his voice steady.

“I would think that was obvious.” Moran flexes his grip around the gun.

“And if I don’t have anything to tell you?”

“That was him. On the phone.”

John hasn’t been given enough time to process this yet, there’s too much happening at once.

“It can’t have been him.” John tells him calmly, “Sherlock is dead.”

“Stop _lying_ to me!” Moran’s anger is sudden and dramatic. John is suddenly overwhelmed with the sickening smell of chlorine, “If you want to play games with me Dr Watson,” Moran continues, words like ice, “I’m happy to oblige. I learnt from the best.”

 Another pause, they appraise each other silently, seconds tick by.

“What do you want from me?” John asks finally, weighing each word.

“I want you to tell me where I can find Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock is dead.”

“And in the event that you won’t tell me this.” Moran continues, ignoring him, “I would like you to provide the means for my finding him on my own.”

John exhales slowly.

“Which means?” He asks.

“Which means, Dr Watson.” The man says languidly, reaching into the pocket of his oversized coat, “That I think it’s about time that we left.”

As he finishes speaking the door bursts open behind him, releasing half a dozen men into the room, guns raised, movements direct and efficient, executed with military precision.

They are all shouting: at John, at each other, barking orders, creating confusion and noise. John complies with the roared instruction to put his hands on his head, doing his best to ignore the chaos they’re creating to stare back at the figure standing calmly in the midst of it all.

Three separate men come forward to seize John and he offers no resistance as they grab at their different parts of him, the futility of putting up a fight against this abundance of force immediately obvious. His wrists are manhandled down behind his back and handcuffed firmly in place, instructions still being shouted at him as he’s pushed forward, toward the door.

John keeps the stranger’s eyes as he’s bundled past. A familiar stranger. Someone who is and isn’t someone that John knows. Someone who’s dead. Someone who has been dead for three years and spoke to him through a phone while his image still stood before him. But this man isn’t him. John knows that. The same way he knows that this is happening. That this has happened.

This man isn’t Sherlock. This man is Moran. This man is dangerous.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for some dark themes implied ahead.

They meet in a crowd.

A wet, windy day: grey sky the same shade as the puddles on the pavement.

A dark figure up ahead, tall and dark, a long coat billowing as he walks quickly through a throng. Just out of reach.

 

They meet on a bus

John searches through the pockets on his coat to retrieve his oyster card, looking up apologetically to meet the driver’s eye as he fails to locate it.

A man knocks into him roughly from behind, offering no apologies. John turns in time to see him push past impatiently, a long coat and a cloud of black curls.

 

They meet in a sandwich shop.

The end of John’s order is lost in a strangled shout from behind the counter. John and the pink-haired girl who had been serving him turn together to watch as two men rush past the doorway behind her. One is hurrying backward as if defending himself from the figure pressing toward him: a tall man with a dark coat and a threatening look on his raw-boned face.

 

They meet in the road.

John is weaving between stationary traffic to cross the street and has to stop suddenly against the wall of a cab that’s pulled up in front of him.

A pale face looks out at him from the back window: angular cheekbones and ghostly eyes narrowed at his view of the world.

John meets his gaze momentarily.

 

 

 

_The room is cold._

_A stone floor and a bare chair._

_John’s hands are still bound behind his back. He has no idea how long he’s sat here._

_“Are you ready to speak to me?” A voice asks from above him and it’s some effort for John to raise his face toward him. Everything hurts._

_The man speaking is stocky and broad. Wide shoulders and sandy pale hair, buzz-cut close to his head._

_Moran._

_“I have nothing to say to you.” John replies defiantly. The breath he draws to speak is an effort._

_“There are things that you know Dr Watson.” Moran says, “Things that you aren’t telling me.”_

_The man is pacing slowly before him. John offers no response_

_“Then there are the things that you thought you knew,” Moran continues, words like a spell, “And things that you know you don’t. We can pick them apart one by one if that is what is necessary.”_

_John looks up at him from under swollen lids, bracing himself._

_“Tell me.” Moran asks, threateningly, “Where is Sherlock Holmes?”_

_John can’t suppress the shout when the pain starts again._

 

 

They meet in a theatre.

The dark head of hair and narrow shoulders of the man sitting in the row ahead of John obscures most of his view. He’s always had the worst luck with seats.

 

They meet on the South Bank.

John has stopped to watch a street performer, his magic act mainly hijacked by the antics of his chosen volunteers: three boys under the age of ten, their mother standing laughing on the side-lines along with the rest of the audience.

John looks up in time to watch two men dash past along the river side, knocking into tourists and pedestrians carelessly as they go. The man in pursuit wears a long coat that flaps dramatically behind him like a comic book hero.

 

They meet on a corner.

John is hurrying to an appointment when he rounds a bend and walks full pelt into a stranger. A stranger carrying coffee.

John is soaked.

“God, I’m sorry,” But despite being covered unexpectedly in a caffeinated beverage, John feels he should be the one to apologise.

John looks up at the previous owner of that coffee, his dark suit and dramatic coat seem to have avoided the cascade of liquid completely.

The stranger merely glares in response. Stepping around him and carrying on.

 

 

_“Do you have any idea how easy this was for me Dr Watson?” It’s Moran’s voice._

_John’s doesn’t respond, struggles instead to regulate his breathing._

_“The accomplice of the great Sherlock Holmes. Abandoned.” Moran continues, “He left you undefended despite the fact he knew you were in danger.” A pause, “I just walked into your office. I even made an appointment.” He chuckles._

_“My receptionist is an idiot.” John responds through gritted teeth._

_“Now, now Dr Watson. Don’t speak ill of the dead.”_

_John’s stomach does a nauseating turn._

_“Your resolve is admirable.” Moran continues smoothly. “But you have to know you will be going the same way if you do not start to cooperate.”_

_“I don’t have anything to cooperate with.” John’s response._

_“But that’s not true Dr Watson. You know more than you’re saying.” A pause, “You were loyal to him.” Another. “But three years is a long time,”_

_“Sherlock is dead.” John goes back to something he feels he has said a hundred times._

_“For a dead man he has accomplished much.”_

_John doesn’t answer._

_“I cannot believe he can have worked so hard to untangle Moriarty’s plans without help.” Moran again._

_The name cuts into John’s skin as painfully as the welts already raised there._

_“You know his methods Dr Watson.” Moran’s voice is louder, he must be closer: “Explain…”_

 

They meet at an airport.

John gathers his belongings from the security scanner with casual ease, turning with a smile to take the hand of his girlfriend who is already waiting with her bags.

As they walk away the alarms on metal detector behind him leap to life, three security guards moving forward to hinder the progress of a tall man in a long coat. One who seems determined not to be searched.

 

They meet in a waiting room.

John sits alone in the centre of a row of empty chairs, trying to distract himself from his surroundings by studying the ancient magazines arranged on the table beside him. He’s nervous. They always say that doctors make the worst patients.

“Excuse me,” A deep voice above him cuts into his thoughts and John looks up, lost for a moment in a smooth face and equally startling eyes. “Can you direct me to the morgue?” The man asks.

John seems to have lost his voice; instead he puts out a hand to gesture down the hospital corridor to his right.

The man nods his thanks, whirling his long coat around him as he turns briskly and follows the path John has indicated.

John is left wondering how the stranger could have known that John would know the answer to the question.

 

They meet in a lift.

The uncomfortable exchange of glances as four people take up positions in a tiny room, standing mutely to watch the doors as they begin to close behind them. John notices the pretty woman standing to his left and she catches him looking, flashing her bright green eyes.

Then a fifth figure; striding forward at the last second and slipping through the closing doors. He fits himself amid them all, a long, skinny frame and a dark dramatic coat.

The doors close. They wait.

The lift ascends slowly, the tall figure in the centre of them all bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet impatiently. Finally the bell rings as the doors begin to retract.

The stranger has gone before they’ve fully opened.

 

They meet in a bar.

John brushes past a man on the way to order a drink, knocking into him slightly.

John turns to offer his apologies, catching sight of a pale face framed by black curls.

He nods in acknowledgement.

 

 

 

_“Sherlock is dead.” John says again, his voice losing its strength. The words have become a mantra, something he can say, over and over, some slice of reality he can cling to._

_Moran looks down at him._

_“You know that’s not true.” He replies slowly. “And if that isn’t, what is?”_

_He pauses; John has to look away from his eyes._

_“You can no longer rely on what you think you know Dr Watson.” Moran continues “Sherlock is alive.” He pauses to give the words weight, “Alive and absent. He knew this would happen. He knew I would come for you. Yet he offered no help. The man you thought you knew does not exist.”_

_John has to squeeze his eyes shut against the words, unable to move his hands to cover his ears._

_“Sherlock is a lie.” Moran’s voice,_

“I’m a fake.” _Sherlock’s. Awoken from the back of John’s subconscious._

_John swallows._

_“He left you when you needed him.” Moran’s voice again. “He left you to pick up the pieces, to understand his reasons. But. He. Did. Not. Die.”_

_He leaves the words to sink in before he continues:_

_“Where do the lies stop, Dr Watson?” Moran asks, there is an awful logic in his words. “Where do the lies stop and the man begin?”_

 

They meet in a country inn.

John is sat at the bar, pint resting on the eighteen inches of wood between himself and the owner. They’re laughing about something one of them has said.

A man strides in behind him.

“Do you have a room available?” The stranger asks as he reaches them.

The barman has stopped laughing; instead he appraises the newcomer with unveiled interest.

“Yes, as it happens.” There’s a smile as he speaks.

John turns to look at the stranger out of the corner of his eye. Skinny, high cheekbones, height extenuated by a long coat.

“Trade’s been a bit slow recently.” The owner tells the man, busying himself with finding the keys behind him, “But thank God for the demon hound!”

The stranger raises one eyebrow.

 

They meet at tower 42.

John had been visiting a friend. They’d been for lunch around the corner and John had offered to walk her back to the office. She’s pretty; beautiful green eyes.

They kiss goodbye politely on the cheek, John flashing a smile and suggesting that they “do it again sometime.” He stands watching her make her way through the glass fronted reception and onto the escalators, wondering casually how well she must be doing for herself to work in an office where employees aren’t even asked to use stairs.

As he watches a man brushes past him, pushing his way through the revolving doors behind her and striding confidently up to the escalators himself. He’s wearing a long dark coat.

 

They meet in the city.

John is standing on a street corner. He can’t remember why he’s here.

He’s holding a phone to his ear.

“…I want you to tell Lestrade;” A deep voice on the other end of the line, tears in the words, “I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly… in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

John can’t listen any longer.

“Okay, shut up,” He cuts in. “The first time we met… the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

 

They meet at a poolside.

John stands behind a familiar man in a dark suit. He’s facing away from him, arm raised at right angles to his skinny frame to aim the gun he’s holding at a figure some distance away.

“Probably my answer has crossed yours.” The familiar man says coolly, voice deep and thick.

As he finishes speaking he slowly drops his arm, his aim arcing downward to the pile of discarded clothing and explosives on the floor.

The silence is deafening.

Seconds tick by.

Then a tinny rendition of “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees starts playing from the other side of the room.              

 

 

_“He had you under his spell Dr Watson,” It’s Moran’s voice._

_John doesn’t have the strength to look up any longer. He’s bent forward in the chair, faced tipped almost to chest._

_“He kept you close. Close enough so you wouldn’t question.” The voice seems to be circling him; John can’t focus on it properly._

_“So close he seems to have gotten attached himself.” Moran reaches out to drag his fingers across John’s bare shoulders, walking past him, behind his back. “Jim called you his pet.” Moran spits the word, as his fingers close around John’s left shoulder. John winces, “I can see that now: Obedient.” A step further and Moran drops his touch, “Faithful” He says, at John’s side now. “Blind.”_

_He’s in front. He puts a finger under John’s chin, tipping his face upward to look into his. John resists the urge to spit in it._

_“You have done your job,” Moran continues._

_John mind ticks over, trying to work out what he’s said, what he’s told him, but it’s a blur. Dulled by pain._

_“You knew nothing.” Moran’s eyes are cold. “As, in part, I suspected. Pets aren’t known for their intellect.” A sneer. “But you fulfilled your other purpose. Sherlock is willing to do anything for your safe return.”_

_“Sherlock is dead.” John says, finding his voice. The words mean nothing more than defiance to him now. He’s not sure he believes them anymore, the knowledge literally beaten out of him._

_“Sherlock has surrendered.” Moran offers a dark smile._

_John stares back at him, expressionless._

_“You’ve spoken to him?” John asks then, something occurring to him._

_“Yes.” Moran’s voice. “Moments ago,”_

_And slowly John begins to smile, then, more remarkably, laugh. It’s quiet at first, an exhale of air through thick lungs, his bruised ribs twisting and aching as he breathes, but there’s something about the pain that adds weight to the feeling. A kind of mania descends. He becomes possessed with it, hilarity building, soon he can’t help himself, shoulders shaking, tears welling at the edges of his eyes._

_“What?!” Moran bellows as John’s laughter bubbles. He’s staggered back a few paces in surprise._

_“That,” John rasps out between stuttered breaths. “That was probably a mistake.”_

_Moran looks back at him. John wonders what his mashed face must look like grinning beneath the bruises; he guesses he probably looks a little terrifying._

_Then a thump outside._

_The room they’re in is small and dark, John has had little chance to pay any attention to the world beyond it in the time he’s been here; he’s alternatively been unconscious or with company. Now he turns his attention to the door he can vaguely make out behind Moran’s shoulder._

_Moran turns to look also. Another thump, this time accompanied with a bang._

_“Should you get that?” John asks with dark humour._

_Moran ignores him._

_They listen together to the sound of shouts outside. To calls and heavy running footsteps and then something that sounds like a gunshot._

_Moran is rooted to his place. John can only smile._

_And then with a sudden explosion the door flies open, hordes of armed policemen crowding onto the room with the kind of shouts and calls that John has last heard in a doctor’s surgery._

_They’re circling Moran, guns trained on him, shouting instructions._

_John watches it all unfold with dislocated pleasure. He’s safe now. They’ve found him. He’s letting himself go. He barely registers when one of the officers peels away from the throng and moves over to him, a confident stare and a dark uniform, assessing. The man is saying something but John doesn’t have the strength to respond. He’s dropped his head again, fighting unconsciousness._

_“John,” And then his name through the fug of his disconnectedness. John lifts his head again painfully, allowing a different dark figure to slowly take shape: a pale face and sharp cheekbones, a halo of dark curls._

_“John,” The familiar shape says again, a velvet voice. “Can you hear me?”_

_John smiles against the pain. And lets the dream overwhelm him._

They meet at a fair.

Bright lights under a dark sky, the twinkle of Christmas decorations and the gentle sound of carols bathed in the sweet scent of mulled wine.

John can’t help grinning like a big kid as he wanders aimlessly amongst it all, watching the punters at the stalls, the kids eating doughnuts, a couple strolling toward him: a pretty brunette and her boyfriend, holding hands.

Rounding a corner John’s attention is drawn by the skaters, lit up on their own lake of calm in the darkness: circling figures, bright colours and winter hats, skittering and flailing and gliding across the ice. He stops to watch them, resting his elbows on the barrier.

As he stands he becomes aware of a presence at his back, a tall figure in a long coat. There’s a huff of air beside his face and long arms reach out to circle his waist from behind, lips brushing close to his ear.

John smiles.

“What’s this for?” He asks, leaning back into the warmth of the embrace without turning his head to see the man behind him.

“You’re a hard man to find.” A familiar deep voice puffs hot breath into the crook of John’s neck, mouth grazing sensitive skin. John closes his eyes to savour the sensation.

“Hm?” John asks in contentment, “I’ve been right here.” He sighs.


	17. Chapter 17

They meet in a hospital.

John swims up through layers of unconsciousness to emerge into a bright white room; honeyed sunlight slanting in through the blinds on a distant strange window.

He blinks in the unaccustomed light, objects slowly shifting into focus. He’s awoken propped up on an unfamiliar bed, the beep and hum of the machines by his side echoing the distant dull throb in his head. Hospital then.

His eyes fall closed again at the realisation and he takes a moment to do a mental assessment of the aches and niggles in his body. Ribs broken, he notes through the pain in his breathing, head sore, throat dry but all limbs seemingly present and correct.  He tenses his fingers and toes to make sure, noticing his right hand seems weighted down; he has to crack his eyes again to look down at it.

A hand holds his on the bedclothes, the fingers laced through John’s in a manner that makes it difficult to tell at a glance which digits are his. Mind sluggish John actually has to run his eyes along the arm attached to the hand before he reaches the pale face of the owner: leaning forward with tense expectation in his wide eyes.

He looks pale; paler than John last saw him, the shadows beneath curve of his cheekbones are more pronounced and there are lines around those extraordinary eyes. John is captivated by them. With effort he pulls his left arm across his body and presses his palm against that cheek, thumb lying along the sharp peak of the cheekbone and brushing up to trace against the underside of the creases.

“Sherlock.” When John speaks it is a whisper, his voice doesn’t feel like it’s been used in a lifetime. The word itself in longer.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to know what to say in response. His mouth hanging open beneath the edge of John’s hand, pale eyes huge, pupils darting left and right across John’s face.

Their fingers tighten together where they still lie on the sheets, John couldn’t say which one of them had moved to do it first.

“You’re alive.” John tells him in the face of his silence, his words slow.

“You know who I am.” Sherlock finds his voice.

John can only stare back at him in wonderment. Of course he knows who he is. How could he forget?

“I…” John starts, before pausing, “Where am I?”

“Hospital.” Sherlock answers softly. He’s made no move to retreat from John’s touch. In fact his cheek feels heavier in John’s palm, as if he’s dipped toward it.

John could ask what had happened, what he’s doing there. Why his ribs hurt and his head pounds and the monitor at his left elbow is tracking each leap and bump of his heart rate.

“You’re here.” John says instead.

They continue to stare.

“I’m sorry John.” Sherlock says heavily. John stares back at him, feeling the thrum in his head intensify a little.

Sherlock has been gone for three years.

The man jumped off a roof, disappeared into the night, seemingly faked the whole thing and then put John through hell. But he’s here. John is damned if that’s not the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time.

John feels his face move into something that could be really only be described as a grin:

“So you sodding well should be,” He says with a low chuckle.

The look Sherlock gives him in response to that laugh is one of pure confusion; it makes John’s grin wider and his grip on Sherlock’s cheek firmer. John holds it there for a moment, just watching, until he uses those anchored fingertips to draw Sherlock closer to him, capturing those ridiculous lips in a kiss.

At first it’s awkward; Sherlock’s mouth stilled in shock against his, until suddenly Sherlock presses forward, cresting his surprise and allowing something to unlock in him; something like relief. Relief and need. It’s dizzying, John feels like he’s drowning in the overwhelming rush of the smell and touch and taste of him. He has to pull away.

“What the hell have you done to me Sherlock?” John asks, a slow smile on his face, he’s not quite sure what he’s referring to. The question can be applied in so many ways.

Despite their parted lips his head still retains that woozy feeling, heightened by the fact that Sherlock hasn’t let him retreat far, his face pressed forward against John’s, foreheads rested together. John wonders idly how uncomfortable it must be for Sherlock leaning over the bed like that, then wonders why he’s worried about Sherlock when he is the one in hospital, then why he can’t seem to concentrate on one thing for more than a second. Then what drugs they must have him on.

“I’m feeling a little…” John’s tongue is thick.

“It’s the painkillers.” Sherlock says slowly, with a movement that could only really be termed as a ‘nuzzle’ if it weren’t being performed by Sherlock Holmes.

“I…” John starts, gets lost.

“You should rest.”

“You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pours as much agreement into the word as is possible.

“I’ll be here when I wake up?” John asks, losing himself slowly.

A silence, this time Sherlock’s agreement is more tentative: “Yes.”

John floats away again.


	18. Chapter 18

They meet in a hospital.

“…no evidence.”

“We’ve been over this before. Of course there is evidence.”

“Unwitnessed.”

“I witnessed it!”

“You are sure you weren’t dreaming?”

There are voices in the room as John emerges from unconsciousness again. Arguing voices.

“Don’t be ridiculous," It’s Sherlock speaking, his words sharp with the extra edge of petulance he uses only when he’s talking to his brother. “I’m telling you,”

“And I’m telling you, brother…” Said brother drawls back.

 “I don’t give a one iota of a damn what you’re telling me…” Sherlock cuts in.

“…that there has been no obvious evidence of improvement.” Mycroft ignores him.

“You can’t say that!” Sherlock is becoming animated.

“I can and I will. A few scattered incidents of barely cognitive consciousness,”

“I wouldn’t…” Sherlock cuts in,

“Ranting, raving, unresponsive.” Mycroft continues, infuriatingly calm. He pauses, sighing: “I don’t mean to be callous Sherlock,”

“You always mean to be callous, Mycroft,” Sherlock spits the word.

“…I’m just trying to get through to you.” Mycroft ignores him again, “I want you to be prepared.”

John remains unmoving, not wishing to alert them to the fact he’s awake. They are speaking without care to the volume of their voices, unconcerned about disturbing him. John wonders idly what that means.

“Prepared?” Sherlock’s voice is closer than before.

“Prepared for if the damage is permanent.” There’s a finality in the words that ups the rate of John’s heart marginally.

Unfortunately this isn’t something that is easy to hide when you’re hooked up to a heart monitor. The conversation above him silences.

John opens his eyes. To find them both staring at him.

“Morning.” John tries to say lightly, but his voice cracks. Anything that could have been an attempt at a joke lost in a croak.

“John?” Sherlock asks, John was right, he is close, Mycroft lingers near the doorway, a rare look of unfettered surprise on his face.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” John says hoarsely, testing the edges of his throat with the words.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asks.

“Sore.” John answers immediately, not missing the look Sherlock gives his brother over his shoulder: he may as well have said ‘I told you so’ out loud.

“You know who we are?” Mycroft’s voice implies he’s managed to get a lid on his astonishment. He doesn’t appear to have changed, John would probably say Mycroft is wearing the same well-tailored suit as the last time he saw him, the same umbrella tucked by the handle over his arm.

“Yes.” John confirms.

Mycroft’s crooked eyebrow seems to imply he would like more.

“Laurel and Hardy?” John offers.

Sherlock exhales sharply beside him in amusement.

“Well,” There could be something like a smile on Mycroft’s face as he leans back a little from the word, before he shakes his head fractionally: “I should get the doctor.” He says efficiently, striding from the room.

Sherlock hasn’t looked away from John:

“Do you know where you are?” He asks softly and John finally has chance to consider his surroundings: the same hospital room, no light through the distant window this time, just the sterile tungsten glow of the overhead bulb.

“Hospital.” John confirms, then adds: “The Royal Free.”

“You remember?” Sherlock seems surprised at the amount of detail.

“You told me...” John’s response, words uncertain.

At the sound of the door opening John turns to assess the figure that has just entered: a bear of a man who seems to struggle to fit himself in the doorway. The man moves forward confidently, pulling his stethoscope from around his neck:

“You’re back with us,” He says to John in a faint cockney accent.

“I think so,” John replies, as quickly as his dream-muddled mind will allow.

“Can you tell me how you’re feeling?” The doctor has paused by John’s chart, looking something over. John notices his name badge: Doctor Osborne.

“Sore.” John repeats in answer to his question, finding as he does so that it still applies.

The doctor moves forward, offering another question, producing a pen light from the top pocket of his scrubs and flashing it across Johns eyes, then asking another, touching the cold end of his stethoscope to John’s chest, then another and another.

John answers them all as well as he can. Being honest, giving specifics where he knows he would need them if he were the one asking. They’re all about his current state, but John is expecting the last question when it finally comes:

“And what do you remember?” The doctor asks.

Sherlock has sunk into the background while the doctor has been checking John over, trying, rather uncharacteristically, to become as small and unobtrusive as possible. John wonders whether this is some sort of behavioural conditioning created over time, it smacks of previous occasions when his disruptive nature has got him chastised or even removed.  John then wonders how many other times there had been.

On the doctor’s question however Sherlock can’t seem to help himself moving forward, suddenly materialising at John’s bedside. John’s first thought is that Sherlock is eager to know John’s response, however the press of the other man’s fingertips across the top of John’s hand seems to suggest his presence may even be one of support.

John takes a deep breath.

“I was…” John starts carefully, looking up at the doctor, “…I was a hostage,”

The doctor nods once when John offers nothing more, seemingly satisfied.

“The police will be in to speak to you.” He says slowly, looking between John and Sherlock, “When you’re feeling up to it?”

The question in his statement is a subtle one.

“Thank you,” John says in answer.

“We’ll give it time,” He says, flipping the chart closed and preparing to leave, “You had a few people scared for a while there. You take it easy.”

He leaves with a smile, the implication of his protection still left hanging in the air.

He leaves silence in his wake.

“I think I surprised your brother,” John tells Sherlock when it becomes too loud.

Sherlock still stands by his bedside, suit but no coat, face still pale, eyes still blue. He’s dropped his touch from John’s hand and stands awkwardly immobile: not his normal resting state.

“You did.” He replies smoothly.

“Where is he now?”

“Gone to lick his wounds I suspect.”

“You think he’ll forgive me?”

“For proving him wrong? Never.” A subtle smile, “For what it’s worth, I’m glad.”

“You’re always glad to prove Mycroft wrong.”

“That aside…”

John doesn’t bite.

“The doctor said I scared you.” John says in response instead.

“He said you scared ‘a few people’,”

“I took it he meant you,”

“And him.”

“And the other doctor?”

“The other doctor?” Sherlock asks.

“The woman. With the green eyes.”

“Doctor Price.” Sherlock supplies, John savours the name for a second. “You remember her?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes,” The word is slow, John’s mind seems to be churning through too many memories: close and inane and big and important and far away and impossible.

Then his eyes flick back up to Sherlock properly.

“I frightened her, didn’t I?” John tells him,

“Yes,”

“Not figuratively. Literally. I yelled at her.” A pause. “Did I?”

“Yes.” There’s something like a pleased smile on his face. “But don’t worry, she will have forgotten.”

“She will?”

“Yes,” Sherlock pauses, “It was some time ago now.”

John inhales slowly, remembering the confusion, the rush of his words and the pitch of his voice. It was real. It could have been yesterday.

“How long?” He asks, eyes slipping from Sherlock, nervous of the reply.

“Three weeks.”

John swallows.

“How long have I been here?”

“Four weeks, three days.”

John continues to stare ahead, processing.

“And how many hours?” He asks lightly around the lump in his throat.

“Seven,” Sherlock answers calmly, John has to flick his eyes up to him again in surprise. He hadn’t expected a response. “And a half,”

John smiles, nothing’s changed.

“So that really happened?” John asks then,

“Yes.”

“I didn’t remember you.” John states.

“No.”

“That’s why you asked me…?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” John says automatically.

“No.” Sherlock asserts, more forcefully this time.

“No?”

“You don’t need to apologise.”

“Okay.” A single nod of agreement on John’s part, then his gaze back on the man above him. “You’re sodding alive Sherlock!” There’s laughter in his words.

“I was wondering when we would get to that.”

John opens his mouth with a quick response, but stops short.

“That’s…”

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“You said that to me.”

“I did?” Sherlock tone is tentative, almost nervous.

“Yes.”

John has gone far away in his mind again. Sherlock stands in patient silence.

“I had these dreams…” John says very slowly. “Strange ones…”

“And I was there?” Sherlock asks

“You featured.” John says vaguely.

“Well…” Sherlock starts, puffing up fractionally.

“Probably because I’d just seen you come back from the dead.” John cuts him back down.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to explain that to me?”

“It’s a long story.” Sherlock says slowly.

John peers around at the room exaggeratedly, “I’m not going anywhere.” He says.

Sherlock nods and casting around for a second puts out a hand to pull the battered plastic chair across from wall to bed. He sits down and takes a breath to begin.

Before he can say a word however a memory appears in John’s mind, brought about by the sight of Sherlock’s face sitting so close to his right elbow.  Suddenly he can feel the smooth skin of Sherlock’s cheek beneath his fingertips, smell the scent of his skin, taste the swell of his lips. Had that really…?

“Sherlock?” John says cutting off the man’s mental preparations.

“Hm?”

“Did… I…?” He wants to ask but can’t find the words.

Sherlock regards him levelly, a slow dawn of understanding crossing his features.

“You were under the influence of a great many drugs.” He replies.

“I probably still am.” John points out.

“Fewer now.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it was almost a week ago.”

This one really does take John by surprise.

“I thought… It seemed…” John starts,

“You’ve been almost incompletely unresponsive since.” Sherlock continues.

“I was responsive before?”

“Occasionally.” Sherlock says succinctly.

John waits. Sherlock blinks back at him for a beat, two, before taking breath and continuing:

“You were confused. You’d wake intermittently. You wouldn’t remember things.”

“I spoke?”

“Yes, though you wouldn’t often make sense.”

“‘ _Ranting_ ’ and ‘ _raving_ ’?” John quotes.

“In a way, yes.” Sherlock concedes, “Though my brother dramatizes.”

“No wonder I scared you.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was Moran’s.” John says, his words sucking most of the air out of the room.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice is slow against the vacuum.

“He…”

“He enjoyed playing with your mind.” Sherlock says heavily, tensing his jaw with suppressed emotion, “He tortured you.” Tenser still. “He knew my appearance had created confusion, he played on that. He played with you.”

John swallows again.

“I could have prevented it.” Sherlock continues.

“How?”

“We were watching him.”

“We?”

“Yes.” Sherlock doesn’t explain. “We were watching you too.”

“You were?”

“I suspected his intentions but I had no way of knowing when he’d strike.”

“He knew you were alive?”

“He had begun to suspect. He was making things difficult. He made it necessary for me to begin preparations for my return.”

“The yarders cleared your name.” John remembers,

“Yes.” Sherlock agrees, “Or rather they were permitted to make the information public. It was the first step.”

“The next step being?”

“Coming home.”

Sherlock’s voice seems to have deepened with the words, he’s aware of their significance.

“And what was the plan for that?” John asks as lightly as he can in the face of them.

“Exactly that.”

“You were just going to turn up on the doorstep?” There’s no doubt in John’s mind that when Sherlock says home he means Baker Street.

“Basically.”

“And hope I didn’t punch you?”

“I wouldn’t have dared to hope that.”

John has to smile.

“You think you know me pretty well.” He says lightly.

“I know you very well.” Sherlock’s tone doesn’t match it.

“You do?”

“I know you put up more of a fight against Moran than he could ever have expected.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I know he underestimated you.”

“I didn’t know anything; it’s easy to put up a fight in the face of blind ignorance.”

“You suspected.”

“Your voice on the phone was a giveaway.”

“Yes.” Sherlock swallows, “I tried. I wanted to get to you but there wasn’t enough time. I was miles away, tracking him. By the time I realised Moran’s intentions it was too late. You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

“I did.”

“Your mobile.”

“Oh.” John doesn’t bother to switch it on at work.

A thought occurs to him.

“My receptionist, Karen, she…?” John asks,

“She’s alive.” Sherlock says. “I got to the surgery too late for Moran, but in time for her.”

John lets out a long breath.

“God this is…” He says.

“This is a lot to take in.” Sherlock supplies.

“Yes.” John tips his head back against the pillows with a sigh. While beside him Sherlock leans forward, his hand reaching onto the bed to cover John’s in a movement that seems practised. So practised that it takes a moment for Sherlock to realise he’s done it. He moves to draw his hand away but John catches it.

“You were there.” John tells him, voice quieter.

Sherlock looks at him calmly.

“You _were_ there,” John confirms, “In my dreams. You kept asking me to wake up, to come back.”

“John…” Sherlock looks dubious.

“I’m not talking literally.” There’s ghost of a smile. “I’m saying the part of my mind that wanted me to come back looked like you.”

There’s a long silence.

John closes his eyes to rest his mind against the information he’s received. What is real and what isn’t. What happened and what didn’t.

“You’re tired…” Sherlock notices, tensing again to move away.

“No,” Again John won’t let him, he likes the feeling of that hand in his, it seems familiar in a way that nothing else does at the moment. “Well yes, but…” He opens his eyes to look at Sherlock again. “The doctor said you’d been here all this time?” John asks him

“Yes.”

“All four weeks, three days and however many hours?”

“Eight. Yes.”

“You can stop counting now.” John tells him with a fond smile.

Sherlock nods. “I was concerned…” He seems to get caught in the words he could choose from.

“You were worried.”

“Yes.” A pause, grey blue eyes turned on John. “It’s my fault.” A confession.

 “No…” John replies immediately,

“I should have realised what he was planning.” Sherlock.

“You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“I can’t?” Sherlock asks sarcastically.

“You couldn’t read his mind.” John says, a shadow of something a Sherlock had once said to him.

“He was skilled at hiding his plans.”

“Who even was he?” John offers in response, a question he’s not asked.

“The last piece of the puzzle.” Sherlock replies, “Since I left I’ve been tracking the people that worked with Moriarty. Moran was, for all intents and purposes, Moriarty’s right hand man.”

A pause as John contemplates this, realising that this was what he assumed all along.

“You didn’t leave,” John says, commenting on the words that stood out to him the most.

“I’m sorry?”

“You said that you’ve been tracking him since you left. You didn’t leave.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t _just_ leave.”

“No,” Sherlock concedes,

“You died.”

“Yes.” Sherlock confirms, slowly, “It was the only way.”

“You didn’t want to?” John honestly doesn’t know the answer to the question.

“Of course I didn’t want to.”

“Three years.” John says in wonderment. Watching him.

“Yes.”

“You could have just picked up the phone.” John says, a slight slant of a smile as he recalls the time he had said that to Sherlock before.

“You’re remembering things.” Sherlock tells him.

“Yes. A lot of things.” John sighs, “It’s difficult to work out what really happened.”

“What do you remember?”

“You sure you want to know?” John asks,

“Yes.”

A pause.

“I remember a chair in a room,” John starts, but Sherlock’s face scrunches suddenly. “You know that part?”

“I’ve deduced it, most of it.” Sherlock says and John wonders whether the four weeks have been enough for his bruises to fade, for cuts to heal.

“So after,” John says instead, straying back, pulling his mind from those memories to others, impossible others. “After I blacked out. I saw you in a crowd.” John pauses, studying Sherlock’s face, a face seen so many places. “Then in a shop…” A pause, John fights against the feeling of the ridiculous: “And a cab… and a train…”

“You asked me if we met on a train.” Sherlock cuts in.

“Yes.”  John pauses, gaining confidence: “We met, over and over. You found my missing wife.”

“I did?” There’s pride in Sherlock’s question.

“Yes, Mary.” John says as if dreaming up your own spouse is commonplace, “We met in a pub and with Mrs Hudson and in a computer lab. I was there on the rooftop…”

“You were?”

“Yes, god you were annoying on the rooftop. You knew what was going on. You tried to explain my own subconscious to me.”

“But I was part of your subconscious?”

“Yes, even in my dreams you know more than me.” John says, as if recounting a fond memory.

Sherlock actually smiles.

“And I’d hear you, sometimes,” John says in reply to it, “You’d be asking me to come back, to open my eyes. Sometimes it was the you in my dream, sometimes I think it was the real you, breaking through.”

“Yes,”

“And other people. Harry,” John stops, “God, I heard Harry. She was here?”

“Yes.”

John is overwhelmed by the memories of sobbing, though a phone.

“Is she ok?” He asks.

“She wasn’t.”

“But she’s been here?”

“Everyone has been here,” Sherlock counters.

“You should tell them I’m awake.”

“Yes.” Sherlock replies without urgency. John gets the impression he doesn’t want to share him just yet.

“And I met you at home.” John tells him.

“At home?”

“Baker Street,”

“Like before.”

“No,” John replies, “It wasn’t then. It was…” John gets stuck, “We were… We were older. You were talking about retiring.”

“I was?” Sherlock seems a little baffled.

“Yes.”

John doesn’t know whether he wants to tell him the rest. He’s lost in the feelings of the dream, remembers the words he’d called out in desperation as terrible realisation had dawned: _I want this,_ he’d said, _I love you._

This man who is sitting at his bedside, cool fingers encased around his in a manner too comfortable to be unfamiliar. John’s first drug-addled reaction on waking had been to kiss him, after his subconscious had dreamt up more than one vision of how their meeting could have resulted in their practically tearing each other’s clothes off.

Sherlock had found him in the cold and kissed his neck as he watched the skaters.

He‘d spent weeks sitting at his bedside, leading him home.

He’d come back from the dead.

John sighs; deep and heavy.  Sherlock is still looking at him.

“I’m glad you’re not dead.” John says in answer to the questions in Sherlock’s eyes.

“And I am glad you’re not dead.” Sherlock says levelly in response.

John smiles.

“I think I…” He starts to say, eyes heavy, mind sluggish and full.

“I’ll be here when you wake up.” Sherlock replies, not needing to hear the end of the sentence to understand.

John drifts away.

 

But it’s Mrs Hudson that’s sitting by his beside when he wakes again.

“How long…” He asks her immediately, she’s sitting in the chair he already thinks of as Sherlock’s, bright sunlight highlighting her hair as she leans over the book open on her lap. At the sound of his voice she looks up at him, reading glasses still perched at the end of her nose, a wide smile forming.

“John,” She says on the exhale, “It’s good to see you.”

John has to pause at the emotion there.

“It’s good to see you.” He replies, his voice feeling less rough than before, “How long have I been asleep?”

“Since last night.” She says calmly, an air of understanding. “I sent Sherlock home; he’s worn out, poor lad.”

“I think I scared him.” John says.

“You scared us all.” Another smile, she takes off her glasses in a practised move. “It’s nice to see you back. I knew you’d manage it.”

“I had some help.”

“Oh my, you did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sherlock so wound up, and that’s saying something,”

John smiles a little, realising that of course Mrs Hudson would take his statement literally.

“He blamed himself you know,” She continues.

“Yes, I know.”

“He told you?” She seems surprised.

“Yes.”

“Well,” She breezes, “This really has knocked him sideways. Not like him to go about expressing his feelings.”

“No,” John agrees slowly, “I guess it isn’t.”

“Of course it was wrong of him to think that, and I told him, over and over, but would he listen?”

“Did you know?” John has to ask, maybe a little curtly.

“About what, dear?”

“About him not being dead?”

“Of course not! My goodness, the day he turned up on my doorstep. He was half out of his mind already, full of worry and impossible stories about hit men and kidnappings. I thought I was imagining things, he seemed to have forgotten that I thought he was dead!” She laughs a little, “He thought that being back in the flat would help him. Of course once I got over my surprise I let him in, managed to get the story out of him in fits and starts, lots of cups of tea. Couldn’t tempt him to eat though, or sleep. He’d just pace up and down in the flat. But he was so worried, we all were.”

“Yes.” John can’t think of anything else to say.

“You were gone for four days, did you know that?” She asks.

“No,” John says tentatively, the concept of time still difficult.

“Four days and I’m pretty sure he never slept. I was there when he managed to get that awful man on the phone; you should have heard him, so clever, just a few innocent questions. He knew where you were in minutes, something about the acoustics... You know how I never understand how he does it…”

“No,” John smiles faintly, “No one understands how he does it.”

“You knew he would though,” She says and John flicks his eyes up to her, remembering a cold room and his laughter: his complete confidence in the fact that Moran had given himself away just by speaking to Sherlock. Perhaps Mrs Hudson really can read minds.

“I thought he was dead.” John says, half truthfully.

“Yes,” She replies thoughtfully, “We all did.” Sober for a moment, then a smile: “He really had us going with that one didn’t he?”

And she laughs cheerily as if it were all just some silly prank. John can only smile in the face of her positivity.

“Sherlock says you’ve been dreaming?” Mrs Hudson asks carefully then.

“Yes,” A simple reply in the face of everything it means. “It makes it hard to remember what really happened,”

“Did you dream of us?” She asks.

“Yes.” He replies, remembering that sweet version of her he had helped with her shopping.

“And Sherlock?”

“Yes,”

“So you knew he wasn’t dead.”

“I hoped.”

“We all did,” A smile on her face. “I can’t imagine it really.” She says in a different tone, “All that time away, he tells me he was tracking people, people that wanted to do us harm.”

“He told me it was to save my life.” John remembers faintly.

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“Hm?” John asks,

“Well it makes me wonder how difficult it was, being away like that. From you.”

A pause. John contemplates her words.

“You know we’re not actually like that, don’t you Mrs Hudson?” John has to say.

“I know. But you are. Really.”

John blinks.

“You tried to set me up with him in my dream,” He tells her, a smile starting.

“I did?”

“Yes, you said all he needed was someone to put up with his silliness.”

“Well,” She smiles, “You do that.”

“I do.”

Another pause.

“He loves you, you know.” She says then.

John wonders if he’s still dreaming.

“He won’t say it.” She continues, “It’s not like him to go about expressing his feelings.” She repeats, “But if a man is willing to die for you, it says more than words.”

“He didn’t die.”

“He’s been dead. For three years. He did that for you. And when he thought that it had caused you harm, you should have seen how he was. There was no consoling him.”

John raises an eyebrow.

“Oh not like that.” She says in response, “You know how he is. He was everywhere, this bundle of energy. I’m just glad you’d got that gun out of the house, who’d have known what he would have done to my walls! There was nothing I could say to talk him down. Then again, there never was, you were the only one who could do that.”

“I couldn’t protect your walls.” John remembers; real memories this time.

“You were with your lady friend.”

“Yes.” He answers,

She doesn’t reply, just reaches out to pat his hand on the bedclothes. John can feel the ghost of other fingers there, gripping.

A comforting silence falls.

“You’re awake,” It’s a deep voice in the doorway that breaks the silence. John looks up to watch Sherlock saunter in. Face calmer, a different shirt.

“Yes,” Mrs Hudson says before John gets chance to open his mouth. “John and I have been having a nice chat.” A smile, she’s looking at John: “It’s so lovely to have him back, isn’t it Sherlock?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies coolly, moving forward toward them. Mrs Hudson rises from the chair as he does so, as if offering him his rightful place.

“I’ll leave you boys to talk,” She says, reaching her cheek up to Sherlock automatically as she passes him and smiling slightly as he kisses it with practised ease. Witnessing it John is reminded of the weeks she’s had to become adjusted to his presence again, the weeks he’s missed.

She leaves with a cheerful wave, pulling the door closed behind her.

Left alone the two of them contemplate each other. Sherlock lingering uncertainly on his feet instead of taking the seat Mrs Hudson has vacated.

“Are you ok?” It’s John that asks the question.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s response.

“Mrs Hudson says you haven’t slept.”

“Mrs Hudson worries too much.”

A stilted pause.

“You went home?” John asks in the face of it, awkward silence isn’t often a feature of theirs.

“Yes.” Sherlock replies.

“Where’s home?”

“Baker Street.”

“You’ve moved back in?”

“Yes.” A pause, Sherlock considers his words. “If that is agreeable?”

“Of course it’s agreeable.” John exhales slowly. “It’s good to know.”

“It is?”

“Yes, it feels… right.”

Sherlock nods slowly, still too far away.

“Are you sure you’re ok?” John asks again then, through the tense fug in the room.

“Why do you ask?” Sherlock asks suspiciously,

“I don’t know,” John starts, having difficulty finding the words he wants to say, “You seem…” John’s words peter out vaguely.

“I seem?” Sherlock asks,

But John doesn’t know how to go on, how to articulate the strange awkwardness in the room. It crosses his mind that perhaps this was how it always was, before, when he wasn’t talking to a version of Sherlock created by his own subconscious. Of course the real Sherlock would seem a little different, if only by the fact that his every word isn’t dictated by the deep recesses of John’s mind.

“Distant.” John supplies finally in response to all those thoughts.

Sherlock takes an awkward step forward and John can’t help but smile slightly.

“It’s just a feeling,” John says, then a pause: “It feels a bit like you’re, I don’t know, waiting for something…”

John watches Sherlock’s face as he says this, that familiar set of features, something held back behind the eyes.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” John continues tentatively, “You’re waiting for something…”

“I…” Sherlock starts, gaze flicking away in a manner that confirms everything.

“…you’re waiting for me to be angry at you.” John says in realisation.

There’s a pause.

It takes a long time for Sherlock to pull his stare back to John’s, his eyes cold and full of steely resolve, defences raised. It takes a longer time for them to realise they have nothing to defend against and begin to soften, the surrounding skin un-tensing.

“You’re not angry?” Sherlock asks slowly, his tone quiet.

John takes a moment to contemplate this, a mental catalogue of every emotion that has flit across his subconscious in the last twelve hours.

“…I’m not.” John replies, not quite believing the words himself.

Sherlock continues to stare.

“I think,” John starts again, “I think I would have been, if you’d turned up on the doorstep, like you planned.” John’s words are faltering as he tries to put together what it is he wants to say, looking inward. “But that never happened. A lot happened instead.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, sounding a little like he would go on if John didn’t cut back in:

“And well, I guess I am, a little,” John muddles on, “Angry, I mean, deep down.” John’s eyes are back on Sherlock’s, “You died. You threw yourself off a building, in front of me. And it hasn’t exactly been easy. Without you…”

“No, I…” Again Sherlock starts, again John stops him.

“But you’re back.” He says simply. “And you picked your moment. But you found me.”

They watch each other silently, John wondering quite where it will go from here. Until Sherlock nods slowly, a single tip of the head.

“That’s more than I deserve,” He says slowly.

“It is,” John starts, “And it isn’t.” A pause, “But I deserve something too,”

A beat before Sherlock replies, “What?”

“An explanation.”

Another pause on Sherlock’s part, another nod.

“You want specifics,” Sherlock confirms, not a question.

“Yes.”

“How I did it.”

“Yes, and the rest.”

“The rest?”

“What you’ve been doing with yourself, where you’ve been, whether or not you managed to remember to eat anything in the last three years? The usual suspects.”

Sherlock’s eyes dip away from John’s, his mouth slanting in a smile. John is glad to have raised it. He watches as Sherlock finally takes the seat by the bedside, feeling a little like the world has realigned itself in a very fundamental way.


	19. Chapter 19

They meet in a hospital.

“Really John, if they insist upon you using it there must be a reason.” Sherlock’s voice is infuriatingly calm.

“I am perfectly capable of walking,” John’s is not.

“You say that…” Sherlock starts to point out, but John cuts him off:

“And since when have you been so interested in the rules?” John accuses.

“If it means ensuring your swift recovery…”

“Walking fifty extra yards isn’t going to hinder my recovery, Sherlock.”

“Probably not, but it will delay our departure.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m merely pointing out the efficiency of using wheeled transport rather than relying upon your significantly reduced mobility,” Sherlock explains,

“You’re saying I walk slow,” John is being deliberately blunt.

“If you wish to be so pedestrian.” Sherlock snaps back.

A pause, they watch each other.

“Really Sherlock?” John dissolves, “Puns?”

Sherlock grins back in response.

John is sitting on the side of a now frustratingly familiar hospital bed, fully clothed and, for the first time since he awoke, shod in something more than hospital issue slippers. Sherlock stands before him, that beautiful suit and dramatic coat, his hands curled around the handles of the offending wheelchair. He shakes it slightly.

“Come _on_ John,” He’s still smiling, “In the time we’ve been arguing we could have already been out the door,”

“If you had just let me walk we could have already been out the door,”

“Doctor Price would never allow it,”

“And how long have you been afraid of Doctor Price?”

“I’m not afraid of Doctor Price,” Sherlock says, with rather an air of a grown up child.

“You are,”

“Am not,”

“You are,”

“Don’t be childish,”

“Me?” John asks,

“Yes you,” Sherlock confirms.

“Admit it then”

“No,”

“She threw you out of the exam room didn’t she?”

They stare each other down. It’s Sherlock that shifts his gaze first.

“Yes.” Sherlock admits, “When you were first admitted.”

John can’t help feeling a little pleased with his own deduction, his previous suspicions confirmed.

“You were being a pain?” John doesn’t really need to ask,

“In her opinion,”

“What happened?”

“She wouldn’t let me see you,”

Sherlock’s voice in the room, the words from a dream. John has to close his mouth around his reply, knocked of kilter for a moment. At some point this might stop happening: reality reflecting dreams reflecting reality.

“I’m sure she had her reasons,” John says slowly, finding his own equilibrium again.

“I may have been a little eager to offer my opinions,”

“You were worried,” John offers, from their previous conversation.

“They only let me see you once you were on the ward.”

“The ward?”

“Yes,”

“But I woke up in a room?”

“Yes, that was Mycroft’s doing.” Sherlock’s tone goes bitter on the name.

“How did I guess?” John offers sarcastically.

“He may also have been instrumental in them allowing me access to you again.”

“Mycroft?” John has to pause, that can’t have been an easy thing for Sherlock to admit. “What did he say to them?”

“I haven’t enquired about the specifics.”

“But you have an idea?”

“I believe he may have been more expansive about the nature of our relationship than is necessarily the truth.”

“Is that a Sherlock way of saying he told them we were a couple?”

A pause, then confirmation: “Yes.”

John blinks.

“And you…” He starts, but pauses. “You were ok, with that? With them, thinking that?” Not the most eloquent of questions.

“It served a purpose,” Sherlock’s answer is typically, cuttingly articulate.

“Yes.”

“It allowed me certain privileges.”

“It did?”

“Visiting hours tend to be ignored for the partners of patients.”

“Ah,” John nods, reading the sentiment beneath the logic as if it were the only thing Sherlock had said.

Sherlock seems to know this. His eyes cut away from John again.

Then John remembers something: milkshakes and a tired smile and a pain in his shin:

“There wasn’t…” He starts, “By any chance, a woman, on the ward? One with kids?” John asks hesitantly.

“No.” Sherlock’s response.

“Oh,” John questions his mind again.

“There was a woman who visited,” Sherlock offers instead, “She had children.”

“How many?” John asks enthusiastically.

“Three,”

“Boys?”

Sherlock pauses for a moment before replying: “Yes,”

“And was she visiting an older man?” John asks in follow up.

“Yes.”

John laughs, another question answered. Sherlock looks at him expectantly but John ignores it, pushing himself to his feet with effort:

“So are we going then?” He asks.

“You’re not going to explain?” Sherlock asks,

John shoots him a look: “Do I need to?”

“I suppose not.” There’s a half smile on Sherlock’s face as he responds, acquainted by now with the strange nuances of John’s dreaming.

 

Returning to Baker Street is like returning to a fantasy.

Mrs Hudson, prevented politely from actually accompanying them from the hospital, meets them on the pavement in front as Sherlock helps John from the taxi. Much to John’s chagrin he’s having to use a cane again, leaning heavily on the other leg than before. It’s a sensation that is both alien and familiar in equal measure.

Mrs Hudson doesn’t mention it of course, full of eagerness and enthusiasm she escorts them with joy back through a familiar front door, finally disappearing again back into 221a with the assurances that she will be up presently to provide them with the cake that currently cloys the air with sweetness.

In the silence that follows her departure John eyes the seventeen steps to the first floor with trepidation. However in stark relief to the first time John attempted the stairs with only one fully functioning leg Sherlock doesn’t immediately disappear up them, instead he takes the cane carefully from John’s hand and offers him his arm instead. There is a momentary catch of eyes before John moves forward to take it, the fact that he doesn’t argue the necessity of Sherlock’s assistance saying more than he could in words.

They attempt the ascent slowly, myriad aches and pains in John’s body still causing him vague discomfort. His major outward hurts are healing: broken ribs knitting well, cuts gradually forming into scars, the leg taking a little longer; but showing signs of improvement. Inwardly he’s still tired however, vaguely out of sync with the rest of the world.

When they reach the top of the staircase they don’t break contact, both pretending not to notice as Sherlock leads them through the door and into the flat.

John stops as they cross the threshold.

“You’ve moved back in then.” John says, stunned.

The room is in chaos: littered possessions, half unpacked boxes, books and papers and notes. John has to struggle to remember how it looked when he left it: a room half full of remembered objects and the tense expectation of a space waiting to be filled. Well now it is; even the bison has headphones again.

“Erm, yes,” And the room is fuller still for the figure of Sherlock, who has left John in the doorway to move in front of him, whirling this way and that: “I’ve not… Been here... A great deal,” He says as he busies himself: cane handed back to John, union jack pillow rehomed from floor to chair, haphazard pile of books retrieved from the carpet, five empty tea mugs rescued from their mysterious hiding places around the room. John watches him carry them through to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” He asks, now even more stunned.

“Tidying,”

“And you’re starting now because?” John has to raise his voice slightly so Sherlock can hear.

“Because it’s a mess,” Sherlock is just a disconnected voice.

“You’ve never noticed before, “

“Of course I noticed, I just chose not to rectify the situation,”

John nods to himself a little.

“Well,” He says, limping forward to his chair and settling back into it. “As you’re in there you can put the kettle on.”

He sighs as he sits, not really expecting anything from the kitchen. Then, miraculously, the sound of the kettle being filled, then the button being pushed.

A few seconds pass and Sherlock appears around the doorway, pausing on the threshold and leaning himself against the frame. He’s left his coat in the kitchen, probably draped across the back of one of the chairs, and now wears just his dark suit and deep purple shirt.

“I could get used to this,” John tells him with a smile.

“Get used to what?” Sherlock asks, contemplating him from across the room.

“You, making tea.” John pauses, “Have you ever done that before?”

“Regularly,”

“While you were dead?” It’s not often that such a sentence can be spoken, never mind with the lightness that John applies to it.

“While I was dead,” Sherlock confirms, smirking a little, the side of his face twitching upward.

John studies him, standing there, the sight of him across the room reminding him of a scene that never really happened.

“It’s good to be home.” John says slowly in the face of the memory.

“It’s good to have you home.”

“I could say the same for you.” John tells him.

“We’re both back from the dead.” Sherlock confirms.

“And back to normal?” John asks,

“Boring.” Sherlock sighs and look away.

And John laughs. His question answered.

“I guess we have to fight off the hordes of well-wishers next,” John tells him, “I spoke to Harry, she said she’d drop round. And Molly for that matter.”

“She’ll probably bring that insufferable new boyfriend with her,” Sherlock supplies.

“Yes, she mentioned him.”

John lets lost for a second, remembering a pretty brunette and her boyfriend, holding hands.

“Then there’s Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock brings him back to the room,

“Yes,” John agrees “Though if there’s cake she can stay as long as she likes. I assume we have nothing to eat in the house?”

“I thought we’d get Chinese,” Sherlock confirms,

John stops for a beat before replying, the normality settling across his shoulders like a warm blanket.

“I’d like that,” John’s reply.

A pause, then:

“There’s beer in the fridge,” Sherlock says, possibly in response to John’s previous question.

But for John the words make his normal quite suddenly shift. He has to close his eyes.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks from his place in the doorway, his concern instantaneous.

“You keep…” John starts, eyes still closed.

“What?” Sherlock asks,

“It’s not your fault.” John’s eyes open again, to a startlingly familiar tableau. “It’s just… You keep… You keep saying things you’ve said before.”

“I haven’t…” Sherlock starts, but then seems to catch John’s meaning, his words peter out.

In the silence that follows the kettle labours to it’s finish in the background and switches itself off with a click, efforts forgotten. The room waits.

John wets his lips, contemplating Sherlock from a distance; mind so full of false memories and imposing feelings that he doesn’t know where to begin. Then he realises he does:

“Why are you all the way over there?” John asks slowly. Remembered words. As he speaks he lifts his hand slowly, fingers outstretched toward a memory.

Sherlock regards him levelly for a few moments, eyes narrowed. John gets the strange sensation that he knows as well as John the magnitude of this action, the choice that’s been made and possibly, what comes next. But of course he can’t, John’s not told him this; he’s kept this particular reality close.

Sherlock steps forward slowly, eyes no longer resting on John’s face but instead on the extended hand. Two paces means he’s close enough to take it, tentatively lacing their fingers together. Then Sherlock sits down in front of him. On the coffee table.

John swallows. Nerves suddenly suffocating. For a time they simply regard each other, fingers linked, John’s eyes roaming Sherlock’s face: the familiar eyes, the ridiculous cheekbones.

“I wanted you.” John tells him slowly, finally, a tone of confession. The expression on Sherlock’s face doesn’t change. “In my dream,” John continues, not quite sure if he’s making any sense, “More than once.”

Another swallow, the resolve in Sherlock’s stare seems to waver with confusion.

“I wanted this.” John says in response to it, squeezing their clasped fingers minutely. “I dreamt we were… more. Than we are.”

“John,” Sherlock seems to have found his voice, he speaks with a resolve that matches the heavy look in his astonishing eyes.

“Sherlock,” John cuts him off, “I think I need to say this.” John sighs slowly, girding himself. “Because I never got to before and I regretted that. But it wasn’t until all this that I realised exactly what it was I wanted to say.” A pause, Sherlock doesn’t move to interrupt; John takes a moment to re-order his thoughts and starts again: “You were the only thing that made sense to me when I was dreaming.” Another pause, “I see that now. You may also be the only thing that’s made sense to me since I woke up, in a strange way.” A breath, “Such a lot has happened. And such a lot hasn’t happened. And you were there, through all of it.” John stops suddenly, a breathy laugh: “Well, except when you were dead.”

Sherlock is visibly unsure whether to defend himself or join John in amusement. John rescues him:

“I guess you were even there when you were dead, not that I knew that. It must have been…” John falters, starts again: “It must have taken a lot. To do that.”

“It,” Sherlock starts, then pauses, John wonders if he expects to be cut off again, “It hasn’t exactly been easy. Without you.” He says slowly, a mimicry of John’s previous statement, the emphasis shifted slightly in a manner that buoys John up:

“So now I wonder,” John says, a slow burn of a smile, “If I wasn’t so far off the mark the first time.”

“The first time?” Sherlock asks,

“The first time I woke up.”

“When you…?” Sherlock asks.

“When I kissed you.”

Sherlock eyes widen a little at that; John can almost see his extraordinary mind mulling them over. Was that hope?

“You were still groggy.” Sherlock says, uncertain.

“I’d been asleep a long time…”

“You were under the influence of a great many drugs.” Sherlock repeats.

“You said that at the time.”

“It was true.”

“You believed it?” John asks,

“You believed it.”

“In a way,” John says.

Sherlock looks at him.

“It wasn’t the drugs?” Sherlock asks, definitely hope.

“Of course it was.” John’s quick response.

“It was?” Sherlock seems surprised.

“They didn’t let me second guess myself,”

“And you’ve been second guessing yourself since?”

“Yes.” John lifts the hand that isn’t holding Sherlock’s to bring it to that face, “It’s probably time I stopped.”

And before he can think anything else, he leans forward and captures Sherlock’s lips against his own.

They’re soft. Their press firm and gloriously responsive. This time there is no awkward stillness as Sherlock controls his surprise. This time from the moment their mouths connect they are on fire. They both want this, they’ve both, in different ways, been waiting for it.

John smiles against that mouth, inhaling the deep warm smell of something purely Sherlock.

He tastes like something beautiful.


	20. Epilogue

They meet in a park.

John is taking a break from a busy shift in the hospital, stepping out into the sunshine to seek a restful place to eat the sandwiches his wife had packed for them both that morning. Still wearing his scrubs he feels a bit conspicuous as he treads the concrete paths amid the grass, seeking sanctuary on the first bench he finds: half empty, the other half seating a man in an unseasonably large coat.

John pays him little attention, pulling out his mobile and contemplating the idea of calling Mary, until noticing the time and realising she’ll be busy.

Then a voice from the other end of the bench:

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John lowers the phone slowly, looking over at the stranger properly.

But instead of saying the words balanced on his tongue in response, he sighs:

“Hello,” John says.

The stranger blinks back, emotionless.

“Hello John,” He replies.

“We’re starting again are we?” John asks.

“It seems so.”

“Perhaps we could skip the introductions?”

“If you wish.”

“Thanks.”

A pause.

“Where are you now?” Sherlock asks,

“Married. Working. Hospital.”

“No limp?”

“No, a lot of therapy.”

“And Mary…?”

“Was my therapist.”

“Controversial.”

“I guess.”

“Does she still have pink hair?”

“No,” John says, thinking it over, “Green eyes.” He realises.

“Predictable.” There’s something like a smirk on Sherlock’s face.

“So you’re…?” John asks this time,

“Working.” Sherlock says quickly.

“And?”

“Not using.”

“That’s good to hear.”

A pause. John puts away his phone.

“This isn’t…” John starts to ask.

“Real?” Sherlock finishes for him. “No.”

“Good.”

“Should I be insulted?”

“It was meant politely.”

“I’m sure it was. As far as these things can be meant politely.”

John smiles.

“Is this going to carry on happening?” He asks.

“Up to you.” Sherlock replies.

“I guess.”

“You have a very vivid imagination, John”

“Who’d have thought?” John replies with a smile.

Sherlock returns it slowly.

“Would you like me to leave?” He asks with an air of finality.

“Yes please.”

 

John wakes slowly.

Turning instinctively in a familiar bed to reassure himself. A cloud of dark curls rests on the pillow beside him.

He smiles as he shifts toward it, curling himself around the skinny body attached and sighing contently into the warmth of the other man’s neck.

Then he falls back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s over.
> 
> All done, finished.
> 
> So now the thanks! Thanks to all those that have read and reviewed so far and been so patient with me as I’ve updated. I think I’ve probably annoyed and confused you all in parts; alternatively you’ve been sitting patiently waiting for me to get to the point already. 
> 
> So yeah, here we go. Thank you so much. Thank you and goodnight. 
> 
> I love you all.
> 
> Q x


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